


Hiraeth

by prufrockslove



Series: The AUs [1]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 220,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrockslove/pseuds/prufrockslove
Summary: Aber, North Wales, 1215. In a world of dangerous men, she was a dangerous woman to love.





	1. 3

TITLE: Hiraeth  
AUTHOR: prufrock's love  
GENRE: AU, Pre-X-files  
RATING: Strong R  
DISCLIAMER: FOX Network owns The X-Files. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from the use of these characters.  
SUMMARY: Aber, North Wales, 1215. In a world of dangerous men, she was a dangerous woman to love.  
ARCHIVE: No permission is given with the exception of Gossamer & AO3

*~*~*~*

Aber, North Wales  
Winter, 1215

Men said the Romans had Romanized England, but only occupied and annoyed Wales for a time.

At least, Welshmen said that. 

At least, Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, said that.

The Roman Caesars and Norman kings never fully subdued Wales, nor had the Vikings who came centuries before them. Distinct from the French-speaking Normans and the English Anglo-Saxons and even the other Celts, Wales remained far removed from the chivalry of London court. A few Marcher lords in the south ruled their feuds in the Norman way, but their castles were outposts of civilization. 

In Wales, life remained simpler and closer to the earth, a blend of the centuries-old Norse and Celtic traditions. In the mountains in northern Wales, many practiced Christianity, but pagan rituals remained common. Seven centuries earlier, a fierce Celt had ruled the north. An early Christian scribe described the Celtic king as ‘the dragon of the Island’ - Pendragon - giving birth to the legend. The remote north was the mysterious land of King Arthur and Merlin, or Myrddin in his native tongue. In the deep forests and rugged mountains, the Catholic Church gained ground, but Old Magic lived on. 

Trained from boyhood, Welshmen were legendary warriors. The archers hit their targets from great distances, picking off the enemy as efficiently as a cook plucked a goose. On horseback or on foot, with a bow or dagger or sword or spear or ax, Welsh soldiers were so lethal the Normans claimed they possessed mystical powers. The Norman kings - first Henry II, then Richard and now John - called on Welshmen to fight the wars of England and the mighty Catholic Church, though none of those wars particularly affected Wales.

Welsh noblemen’s legitimate, arranged marriages must be sanctioned by the Church, and so subject to Church law. The tradition of hearth marriages continued, though. A man and woman, by declaring themselves in front of witnesses and consummating their union, became joined for as long as both agreed to live together. A hearth marriage differed from a Church marriage, and in fact might co-exist with one, which puzzled the Normans to no end. In the remote mountains of Wales, a third option existed. Once a year, among the pagan bonfires of MayDay and Beltane Eve, a couple could still marry in a secret ceremony as old as Stonehenge.

Under Welsh law, women could hold property and seek divorce without their husband's consent. She was subject to her husband, but he could not beat or imprison her without good cause. Few women entered marriages at the first flush of puberty or as virgins, for a big-bellied bride of twenty-two was a better bet for a man's future than an untouched fifteen-year-old girl. Among the lower classes, fathers divided land evenly among sons, not passed it solely to the eldest. A father's open recognition of his child and the mother’s agreement determined legitimacy, not Christian marriage. To the Welsh, this seemed reasonable; to their neighbors to the east, it seemed barbaric.

The Welsh lords were vassals of King John and, for the moment, a tense peace held. Fifteen years earlier, Prince Llewelyn had reunited his grandfather's kingdom in northern Wales. Ten years ago, Llewelyn married Joanna, an illegitimate daughter of the Norman King John, creating a shaky political alliance. King John was increasingly erratic and impetuous, though, and the treaty between the Normans and Welsh faltered. Prince Llewelyn, at the London court, stumbled onto a way to strengthen the fraying bond between the countries. 

The King had taken a liking to a nobleman's wife, a common affliction for Norman kings. According to Llewelyn, the nobleman objected, and so conveniently stopped drawing breath. Being a king, John quickly tired of both the woman and his guilty conscience, and wanted rid of her. Prince Llewelyn saw the woman, thought of Lord Gwilym alone in the mountains of Gwynedd, and arranged the marriage. Norman nobles often married by proxy, with someone standing in for the bride, the groom, or even both. Llewelyn stood proxy for Gwilym at Westminster a few weeks ago as Countess Duana of Somewhere became Lady Duana of Gwynedd. Llewelyn’s messenger informed Lord Gwilym after the fact, and that chaffed Gwilym as he waited for his new wife to arrive. Outside, the winter wind howled, and inside the castle’s office, Gwilym paced. And paced. He looked as if sparks would fly from him at any moment.

Father Leuan sipped warm, spiced wine and bided his time.

"You and Llewelyn conspired against me,” Gwilym accused the priest. “I do not understand why you decided I need a wife," he repeated for at least the tenth time. 

The priest had decided no such thing. The marriage had been Prince Llewelyn’s idea. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but did not get the chance.

"I have lived in peace for years,” Gwilym continued irritably. “I like my life. I do not need a woman chattering in my ear or getting under my feet. Why did Llewel decide I need a wife?" he demanded of Father Leuan. "Why not marry her to someone else? Why me?"

"Women can be pleasant helpmates," the priest tried to explain. "They, they host banquets, run the castle, greet guests-"

"I do not have banquets,” Gwilym responded, which was true. “Gwen runs the castle. Greeting guests encourages them to stay."

"A mother for your children. For Dafydd," Father Leuan amended, "once he returns."

"My children have a mother. She is dead," Gwilym answered tersely. 

The priest exhaled. "What is done is done," Father Leuan advised. "This is your duty, and I suggest you make the best of it. Being given a lovely noblewoman as a wife to care for you, make a home for you, is not the end of the world, Gwilym," he said sternly.

Gwilym stopped pacing. He put his hands on his hips and rolled his neck. He moved as efficiently as a big cat - restless, as if confined to too small an area. He was a tall man, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Prince Llewelyn teased Gwilym about being “pretty,” which made Gwilym bristle, but was also true. He had full lips, thick lashes, and warm, intelligent eyes. His body bore scars, as did his soul, but his face gave little away. He had much passion and genuineness, and he did not suffer fools or falseness. Gwilym was lord of the largest kingdom in northern Wales and General of the Welsh army - a dangerous man to cross, though he wore power well. An only son, his father raised Gwilym to lead knights, make decisions, and win wars with his mind along with his sword. Gwilym was halfway through his third decade of life, with too many of those years spent at war. He learned quickly and he knew many things, but not peace.

His protests about a wife were mouthing and nerves, and for Father Leuan’s ears alone. Gwilym understood the necessity of an alliance between Wales and England. If the Magna Carta failed, the Welsh would need friends. Gwilym’s only son, along with Prince Llewelyn's eldest son, lived at London Court as a well-treated hostage of the crown. If King John or the Church called for knights, Gwilym put on his armor, readied his men, and rode to war, year after year after year. If Wales needed Gwilym married to a discarded royal mistress, sight unseen, he would do it and he would treat her honorably. He would prefer to have been asked, though.

"Because you do not smile anymore," Father Leuan answered, long after the question had been asked. "With Diana dead, your father dead, your daughter gone, and Dafydd away, you do not smile, Llwynog. Perhaps that is why you need a wife."

Gwilym looked at the priest expressionlessly before feigning a broad, theatrical grin. "If I skip and sing, may I be annulled?"

The priest sighed, leaned back on the sofa, and folded his arms unhappily. 

Gwilym went to the narrow little window, removed the oiled linen screen, and opened the shutters to stare at the cold, white nothingness of the valley below. He wanted to ride out to meet her out of curiosity and to have something to do, but that was “not proper,” according to the priest. Decorum decreed Gwilym wait, but decorum came as naturally to Gwilym as setting himself afire.

The day Father Leuan had arrived from London with news of this unexpected marriage, Gwilym spent Merfyn, his old sergeant, to London to escort her to Wales. Knowing nothing of the woman, Gwilym left the mode, pace, and route to Merfyn's judgment. If she was ill or with child or a spoiled brat of a girl accustomed to traveling in a pillow-lined, covered wagon, a month or more might pass before she reached Wales. But a messenger arrived this morning, saying Merfyn's knights and Lady Duana neared the kingdom of Gwynedd and should be in Aber by nightfall. Gwilym could have covered the distance quicker, but in winter, with the threat of snowstorms and bandits, not much quicker. Despite himself, Gwilym felt a grudging twinge of respect. 

"Do you believe this woman will make me smile?" Gwilym asked the priest neutrally.

"I do."

"If you are so certain, tell me why." Father Leuan did not answer, so Gwilym replaced the window screen and started pacing again. "I do not like this Norman custom. A man should not trust his liege lord to choose a wife the way one chooses a mare. Check her teeth; make sure they do not lie about her age. Her temperament should be docile, and her gait should be smooth as silk. One wants a nice ride."

"The proxy marriage is done. It is too late for second thoughts," the priest reminded him. "If you want, I can bless you tonight and that will be that."

"As you say. . . That will be that."

The priest hesitated. He was two decades older than Lord Gwilym, born of a Druid ceremony and sworn to the Church as a boy. He stood a few fingers shorter than Gwilym, with graying, auburn-brown hair, but had the same slim build. Templar priests fought alongside Templar knights, but years had passed since Leuan raised a sword in battle. Or secretly stepped into the Druid’s circle; Gwen, the cook, still went, but Leuan had not participated in those ceremonies since the Old Lord of Aber passed on. Llewelyn filled his days with God's work, and tried to temper Gwilym, and spent his nights alone. Though not blind to women's charms, he took his vow of chastity seriously now. Gwilym knew Leuan to be a good, honest, wise man, and not the preachy, priggish fool he tried to convince people he was. Gwilym valued Leuan's advice, and he wished the priest would give advice rather than mouthing about banquets and visitors and other things of no consequence.

"I agree it is a queer custom, Llwynog," Father Leuan said. "Bedding a wife you did not choose and have barely met."

Leuan got another withering look. He had used the three-decades-old nickname again, and he said what both men thought, but neither was supposed to say. Gwilym had killed thousands of men, and led tens of thousands of soldiers in battle. He and Diana lived together for years, and he bedded his share of other women, as well. He had no reason to be nervous about one woman, yet he was. The King's mistress: an idea equally unnerving and unappetizing.

"Calm your mind. She is lovely, Gwilym. Not like Diana, but fair. Lady Duana puts me in mind of Prince Llewelyn's Tangwystl, may she rest in peace. It has been too long since there was a woman's hand in this castle. It and you could use some gentling."

Looking at the spoiled dogs lounging around the room, the stacks of rare, cherished books, the dirty hearth, and the bare stone walls, Leuan decided it had been ten years too long. The number of books, dogs, and odd ideas increased in direct proportion to the number of years Gwilym lived alone. Gwilym allowed the peasants their festivals, and the castle might host Prince Llewelyn for a night or lesser nobles coming to pay homage - brief outbursts of drunken male revelry - but Gwilym's court was usually a sparse, serious one, as if Lord Gwilym just passed time between battles. He searched for dragons and amber fish, for King Arthur’s grave and for beached sea monsters. He read Plato and Homer, and spent too much time talking with travelers and alchemists. Days passed without him leaving his office. And the bedchamber – Gwilym seldom slept there, and many months had passed since he had slept there with a woman.

"I liked Tang," Gwilym said. Prince Llewelyn's soft-spoken, beautiful, auburn-haired hearth wife died in childbirth a decade ago. Tang's eldest son Gruffydd, now a young man, created havoc at London court with Gwilym's Dafydd. King John liked to keep the heirs of the two most powerful lords in northern Wales close at hand in case their fathers developed second thoughts about their oath to the crown. "I suppose I could live with a woman like Tang, if I must." He thought a moment, and asked neutrally, "What reminded you of Tangwystl? Did the Norman King favor this woman because she is like his wife?"

"Queen Isabelle draws men to her like moths to a flame. King John did not notice this woman because she is fashionably beautiful. She is not so lush and showy as Queen Isabelle-"

"I have seen Queen Isabelle. She is a dim, showy, mean-spirited fool." Gwilym picked at a thread on his new breeches as he spoke. "Beauty is nice, but at some point a man must speak to his wife. He must tell her to get off his arm so he can leave, if nothing else. I cannot bear a lifetime of listening to some woman's mindless twittering and complaining. King John can have her back, and piss on Llewel's peace."

"This woman is not like that, Gwilym. Prince Llewelyn knows you well. She was attentive to her late husband, Llewelyn said. I thought her serious, pious, and modest. Quiet, but most women are quiet in the presence of Queen Isabelle. It is unwise to draw attention from the Queen, especially for this woman. I never saw her be cross, so her temperament, I hope, is quite good."

The priest earned a 'you describe a mare' look. 

"What does she look like?" Gwilym asked, trying a question Leuan might answer. "What color are her eyes?"

"Blue. She is slight, and looks younger than I estimate her to be. She is an adult, though," he added, before Gwilym could ask. "Her skin is fair, so she must be blonde or a redhead."

"You do not know? I know you are the pinnacle of priestly piousness these days, but you saw her. How did you not notice her hair color?"

"At Court, all women wear veils and wimples now," Leuan answered, ignoring Gwilym's jab. "Her French is good, but her accent is Irish. Prince Llewelyn said she was taken from the Scully clan as Dover castle was built, so perhaps her family got caught amidst a battle."

"She is not a Norman noblewoman?" Gwilym had envisioned the pale, sighing, wilting flower of femininity in fashion at court.

"She was a spoil of war, I believe."

"How did she come to be married to a nobleman?"

The corners of Leuan's mouth twitched. "I suspect he loved her."

Gwilym went to the arched office window again and removed the screen. Leuan joined him, ignoring the bitter cold air swirling in. With his elbows on the sill, Gwilym propped his chin on his fist like a little boy. Leuan put a hand on Gwilym’s shoulder and said in French, so the servants could not understand, “I know my Fox. I know Lady Duana would not catch your eye in a brothel, and I know you would not choose this marriage. However, I am certain, when the time comes, you will have no objection to this woman as a woman.”

"Is she so fair, John?" Gwilym responded in French far inferior to the priest’s.

"She is fair enough to draw the King's eye from his legendary Isabelle," the priest answered slowly. "Prince Leolin saw her at Court and thought of you, but there were other offers of marriage. She has no children, no land, no dowry, and still there were many offers. Yes, William, I would say she is truly fair."

"Leol thought her fair, as well?"

Father Leuan removed his hand from Gwilym’s shoulder. "Prince Leolin said she is bright, for a woman. Interesting to talk with," the priest said evasively. "Much like his Joanna."

Gwilym's dark eyes studied the old priest. Llewelyn married Joanna out of political necessity, but his heart belonged to Tang, and Gwilym suspected, died with Tang. Gwilym did not eavesdrop outside the Prince's bedchamber, but everyone knew Llewel's arranged marriage was a stormy one, with Joanna sinning against her husband in their bed last year. The Prince ordered Joanna's lover hanged and exiled Joanna to a nunnery. Llewelyn had not divorced her, though, nor tried her for treason. According to the gossip among the knights, Llewelyn would not see her, but Joanna continued to draw breath, and she remained the Princess of Wales.

"Would Llewel say this young woman is as lovely and loyal and kind as his precious Tang, but has his wife's intelligence and political gain?" Gwilym asked, returning to Welsh. "In theory, I am free to marry as I please; Llewel is not. How many great men covet this fair wife of mine?"

Leuan opened his mouth, trying to formulate some response. Gwilym was a smart, intuitive man. Years ago, he would have thought nothing of sharing a whore or even mistress with his liege lord. But not now, and not a wife. In truth, Leuan’s answer did not matter. If Gwilym wanted to know if Prince Llewelyn had been with Lady Duana - or planned to be - he would walk up to him on market day and ask in front of everyone, friend or not, liege lord or not. Leuan marveled Gwilym had not gotten his neck stretched for speaking so boldly.

"What is it Llewel expects of me with this woman, Leuan?"

"Prince Leolin is your friend, William. Your closet and oldest friend, outside this castle," the priest answered slowly, in French. "She is fair. Very fair. There is political gain, but he chose a wife for you as carefully as he would choose one for himself, if he had that option. That is the truth."

Gwilym nodded, giving no indication of how much of the priest's explanation he understood or believed. He left the window open and went to his broad desk, sitting down behind it. Cold air stole in, and a servant added wood to the fire. Gwilym opened the book sitting atop his desk, staring at it. Minutes passed with only the crackle of the fire, the hunting dogs' soft snores, and the sound of Gwilym's fingers drumming against the wood as he did not read.

"Llewelyn was my friend, when we were boys." Gwilym looked up. "For my part, I still call myself his friend; Llewelyn calls himself the Prince of Wales."

Father Leuan worried his lower lip. "As your friend or as your prince, I do not think Llewelyn would purposely bring trouble or heartbreak to your hearth. You have had your share. That is the truth, as well."

Before Gwilym could answer, a stable boy appeared in the doorway, bringing a message from the outer gate. The guards saw torches in the valley. It had to be her; no one else would be riding on a night this cold.

Gwilym started barking orders like he was on the battlefield. Servants scurried to light torches in the inner bailey and bring wine from the kitchen. They added firewood to the hearth in the great hall. His squire chased the dogs from Gwilym's bedchamber and office, and they whimpered outside the office door. The pinpoints of torchlight rose on the mountain behind Aber Village.

Despite his assurances to Gwilym, Father Leuan did have concerns. Unfamiliar with London court and apathetic about any Norman not swinging a sword at him, Gwilym assumed this woman's first husband had been a minor nobleman. That was not the case. And even Leuan noticed the resemblance between Countess Duana and Prince Llewelyn's dead hearth wife. He did think Gwilym would like this woman, but so did the King; it was unwise to have something the King wanted but did not possess. Leuan thought the former Countess of Pembroke would scoff at Prince Llewelyn's proposition of marriage to a Welsh lord. A powerful, wealthy lord, but Welsh. She had not. Duana listened attentively to Prince Llewelyn, thought a moment, and accepted. King John thought the marriage a wonderful idea, which made Leuan more uneasy.

Leuan said a quiet prayer to the Virgin, knowing God had bigger concerns than one Welsh lord. This was a minor matter compared to the infidels in the Holy Land, or freedom for the Welsh, or the lack of a suitable prince for England - or for Wales, for that matter. But, Holy Mother, if you could lend me your ear for one moment: this is a good man. Odd, maybe, with his books and his questions and his solitude, but good to his people, children, and Church. If you could see your way to send a little happiness up this mountain...

Leuan, with a pang of conscience, silently spoke to the Old Gods, as well.

"What have I forgotten, Leuan?" Gwilym asked, and Leuan returned his thoughts to the present.

"To breathe?"

With obedience learned in childhood, Gwilym's eyes closed for a moment. His chest rose and fell. "I know she agreed to this, and I am not pleased, but I do want her to be happy."

"Maybe a bath?" Leuan suggested. "She has been riding for some time. She will be cold, tired. Also, if you do not plan on her sharing your bed tonight, she will need chambers of her own. That is the custom at court; a wife sleeps in her own rooms with her maids unless her husband sends for her."

"Is it?"

Leuan nodded. "In fact, it might be wiser to wait until the marriage banns are posted in London for a fortnight. After a fortnight, you and Lady Duana would repeat the wedding vows here in Wales, be blessed together, and take her as your wife."

Gwilym shook his head. "I do not understand these silly Norman customs. You said I am married to her."

"You are. You are married by proxy. You may consummate the marriage tonight, if you like. But it will be so late tonight you may find tomorrow or the next day soon enough." Leuan continued helpfully, "Norman marriage laws are indeed complex. Proxy marriages can be annulled, in some cases, or unpleasant, untouched wives put away. English inheritance laws fill books. With Norman sons, a great deal rests on their parents' marriage being deemed valid. She is quite lovely, and newly widowed, and newly come from King John’s court, surely a den of sin. She has no children, but still, a smart nobleman might wait the fortnight-" The priest paused. "-and be thought wise and pious by his new wife.”

Another flurry erupted as servants flew for hot water, blankets, and soap. Gwilym’s own bed already had fresh sheets, but the hearth got lit in the chamber across the hall – the one seldom used these days except by Prince Llewelyn. Gwen had her maids beat the dust from the bed canopy and sweep the stone floor and polish the mirror. She put out candles and wine and a washbasin, and hung “something on the damn wall,” as Gwilym ordered, so it was not bare. The down mattress got fluffed, fluffed again, and covered in clean sheets, wool blankets, and soft furs. Gwilym donated two of his own pillows to make the bed in the Norman style.

The dogs slipped into the office again, excited and underfoot. Gwilym returned to the window and watched the torches snake up the mountain. His heart beat far faster than it should in regard to some woman.

The King had sent a large escort to ensure she arrived safely, but the royal knights waited the outer castle gate. Normans viewed the only good Welshman to be a dead Welshman, and the Welsh returned the sentiment. Gwilym's guards readied bows and checked swords.

Gwilym rubbed his freshly shaven face as he watched his new wife ride in. He had attempted the Norman custom of a beard, but given up after a few days of itching. Father Leuan's ginger-brown and gray beard grew nicely. Gwen cut Gwilym's hair this morning and shaved him, as she claimed, "close enough to kiss." Gwen, however, having raised Gwilym, was biased.

A manservant held an embroidered, sleeveless surcoat trimmed in velvet, the most expensive but also the least-worn garment he owned. Gwilym shrugged the surcoat on over his red tunic. His squire draped a gray, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders as Gwilym continued to watch the woman in the bailey.

In the midst of Gwilym's knights and squires and stable boys, a big, red-bearded man rode into the inner bailey beside a woman riding sidesaddle on a fine gray mare. Gwilym could make out nothing except she was female; a hood covered her head, and a fur-trimmed cloak, her body. Merfyn followed on his own horse, watchful. The red-haired man patted her hand and turned to leave. She looked back at the man, saying something Gwilym could not hear. The red-haired man turned his horse, nodded to her, and rode away with the King's knights. Merfyn helped her dismount. Gwilym saw in the torchlight she stood barely as tall as his sergeant. She stumbled in the snow.

"What are they doing, Leuan? Are they leaving her?"

The priest looked out, squinting. "It appears so, my lord. She has been delivered. I would not linger in Aber, if I was a Norman knight."

"You said the King promised her brother could travel with her. That must have been her brother. Does he want to meet me? Pass the night here?"

"Since there is no choice, probably he does not want to meet you. If I had a sister, I would rather not know."

The King's knights and the red-haired man had faded into the darkness. Their torches resembled distant candles. Gwilym's own knights and their squires trailed across the bailey, headed home to their families for the night.

The dogs, exiled to the great hall, raised a racket as their master hurried through. Gwilym took a breath before he nodded. Servants opened the tall wooden doors, revealing the woman and his sergeant. Many curious Welsh eyes watched from the stable, the kitchen, and the little thatch-roofed buildings and houses scattered across the bailey.

Gwilym stepped into the night. The icy wind blew his hair and whipped at his cloak. It seemed foolish to insist Lady Duana wait outside while he greeted her, so he had Merfyn bring her inside. Merfyn chivalrously offered his arm, and she took it. 

Silently, Gwilym cursed himself for not thinking to do that.

He watched her as she passed, seeing a chin and lips beneath the shadow of her hood. Her skin was fair, and clean. Her lips looked soft, pink. Perfectly acceptable female lips. Nice, in fact.

His heart had no cause to beat so quickly.

Merfyn helped Lady Duana into the great hall. Gwilym waited. Confused, he looked outside again for ladies and maids and guards before remembering he had seen none. She had no baggage cart either, so it must be under guard and coming with her maids. Tonight, he saw a pretty gray mare and Merfyn's bad-tempered gelding, both being led away by the stable boys. 

"Merfyn, were her ladies delayed?" The trek up the mountain was steep in daylight, and his was not the only mountain on her route today. Gwilym assumed her maids, having no fear of being returned to London if they displeased him, waited in a warm inn or neighboring castle until morning. "You were not attacked, were you?"

The little man dropped his outer layers of wool and, in his tunic and battered armor, went to the blazing hearth. "There are no maids. They would not leave London for fear of being raped by the Welsh devils."

"Merfyn!"

The woman remained standing near the door, where Merfyn left her.

"She does not speak Welsh, Gwilym. Or speak much at all. I have barely heard a word from her since we left London. Her brother did most of the talking, and I am glad to be rid of him." The old soldier’s back popped as he stretched. "I have men watching the Norman knights, in case they try to make trouble in the valley." 

"And?" Gwilym prompted. "Did you travel safely? Did the weather hold? Is she well? Why the haste? I did not expect you for a few more days at the earliest. Did you pass the nights in castles?"

His new wife still stood near the door.

"Do you think I tied her to my saddle and rode for home? I was glad to be clear of the stink of London, but her brother set the pace and she did not object, to my knowing. I did everything you asked, and kissed every Norman’s royal ass, and here she is, safe and sound. You have your bride, my lord."

As Gwilym stood open-mouthed, a round woman half Merfyn’s age and twice his size emerged from the kitchen. Elan waited at the far end of the great hall, smiling and twisting her hands together. 

Merfyn grinned. "And I have mine.” He cut his eyes toward Duana. “I hope for a full report in the morning. I suspect she can set fire to a mattress, this one. It is always the quiet ones."

Gwilym swung an open hand at Merfyn's head, expressing his displeasure but giving the old man plenty of time to dodge. Merfyn evaded the blow easily. He retreated with his new wife, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning at Gwilym. 

Lady Duana shivered. Snow melted from her cloak and boots. Father Leuan examined the floor. Gwilym lurked. If Prince Llewelyn visited Aber, Llewelyn brought his own servants and a party of knights. Gwilym's father never married, so the last noblewoman welcomed in Aber Castle had been Gwilym's grandmother. It occurred to Gwilym he should have arranged an elaborate greeting. Some formal welcome ceremony and feast. Musicians and jugglers and acrobats. Had the monks sing. It seemed silly to have servants line up to greet her now, though. Strategy was Gwilym's strong point; ceremony and politics he left to Prince Llewelyn. Matters of the heart, he left to the pagan Fates.

After some consideration, he decided to ask Lady Duana to sit down. Gwilym relayed this decision to Father Leuan, but had to ask, "What might she understand besides French or Irish, Leuan? I read some Manx, but I speak far less. English? The only things I know how to ask for in English or Irish are beer, lamb stew, and a whore," Gwilym said in a terse whisper.

"Do you want me to tell her, or translate?"

"She will think I do not speak French well."

"You do not speak French well, Llwynog."

Gwilym gestured for the priest to stop dwelling on details. "Go tell Gwen she did not bring any maids. Gwenllian must attend her tonight. If Gwen has not done it, see about some supper for her, as well."

Father Leuan bristled at being ordered around like a servant. He did as he was told, but he muttered as he walked away.

Once they were alone, Gwilym studied Lady Duana’s profile and worried his mouth. “Greetings,” he said. In French, he told her – or at least he tried to tell her - he was Llwynog, son of Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, but most called him Gwilym. He said he gave thanks she arrived safely. 

She turned her head. Her hood fell back from her face and revealed blue eyes looking directly at him, like a man would. 

"Vo- Votre nom est Lady Duana?" he managed, but labeled himself a fool. Of course she was Duana. She knew her name, and he did not think some pretty milkmaid was impersonating his wife. He and Leuan practiced her name earlier, but he suspected he still said it roughly. 

"Lord Gwilym," she said slowly, more to herself than him. “Gwilym,” she tried again.

"‘Liam.’ 'William,' en Anglais. Fox, son of William." He stood near enough to take her measure, but not so close as to frighten her. 

"Croeso, Lord Gwilym. William. Diolch I'r Ior," she said in careful, heavily-accented Welsh. His ears heard 'Greetings, Lord William. Thank you, my Lord.' She sank into a curtsy, and stood waiting, watching him.

He opened his mouth, but closed it again. "You speak Welsh." He thought of what she heard about raping devils and English whores and setting fire to a mattress and whatever else Merfyn had said in her hearing. His old sergeant, always opinionated and colorful, was a horrid gossip. Merfyn thought himself an expert in matters of the heart and bedchamber, and was eager to share his wisdom. "Do you understand what I am saying now?" he asked, speaking quickly and casually.

Those blue eyes continued watching him keenly.

He asked, "Do you speak Welsh fluently, or just well enough to be polite?"

"Dw I ddim yn deall, I'r Ior," she answered stiltedly, in formal Welsh, saying 'I do not understand, my lord.'

"Do you understand if I speak slowly?" 

She pulled off one glove and gestured with her finger and thumb she understood a little.

Gwilym nodded. "Do you understand my French? Me- Est-ce que vous - Comprenez-vous mon- me Francais?"

She repeated the gesture.

"Ah. We have reached an impasse."

He pointed to the chair beside the fire, not willing to risk the /ch/ sound to say the French word for it. She sat down. Her hands trembled as she accepted the goblet of wine from a servant.

In her wimple and veil, he saw her face from eyebrows to chin, but she was lovely.

As Gwilym watched her, and she watched him, Gwilym noticed a steady tide of servants through the great hall. Some seemed on honest errands, but most invented reasons to get a glimpse at his new wife. The hearth got fed its fill of wood. Clean tables and benches were wiped clean again, and competitions arose to replace torches and refill her wine goblet. An old man swept around the edge of the great hall and back to the kitchen doorway, to where an old woman waited to quiz him. Whatever she wanted to know, he must not have been able to answer. A moment later he and his broom bashfully made their way around the great hall again, taking a better look. Gwilym kept guards on the outer walls of Aber Castle and at the gate at night, but tonight the Captain of the Guards and three of his knights flanked the inside of the doors of the hall. The twins, Sir Mawr and Sir Mawr Hyll, guarded the kitchen and the base of the stairway. The two large, battle-scared, stony-faced men in red tunics covertly observed because, likely, their elderly mother expected a full report.

Duana looked around, as if taking in the quiet hum of activity. She glanced up at the huge timbers bracing the roof, at the knights guarding the doorways, and at the raised dais across the room, where Gwilym dined and the peasants came to stand and seek an audience. Behind the dais hung his family coat of arms and the standard of Gwynedd, and beyond that an expanse of bare wall never seeming so large until tonight. The dais held a long table and a single, elaborately carved wooden chair. Rough benches and tables had been pushed back against the walls for the night. His lute rested against a wall, but no children’s toys littered the floor. No loom, no woman’s sewing or knitting or spinning. His books and blades and bows and chess set remained in his office, upstairs. He would have sat near Duana in front of the hearth, but he would have had to call a servant to bring a second chair.

Gwilym never thought of his life as so stark and solitary until he saw it through her eyes.

The marshal of the horses, with the head groom and two unnecessary but wide-eyed stable boys lurking behind him, came to report Lady Duana's mare was well. Gwilym asked the marshal a few questions, glad to have something to do. Duana's gaze shifted between them.

"Tu- Votre cheval est bien," Gwilym tried to tell her. 

She shook her head she did not understand.

"Capall. Cabbyl," he tried.

"Dw I ddim yn deall, I'r Ior," she said stiltedly, and shook her head again.

He understood she did not understand. 

Gwilym slipped his signet ring from his finger and gave it to her. He gestured for her to hold it to the firelight. Pointing to the insignia of a horse flanked by dragons, he repeated slowly, "Horse. Cheval. Votre cheval.”

Her worried-sounding response included the words “ceffyl” and “gan ddraig.” 

“Your horse was not taken by dragons,” he said, and chuckled. “Non. Votre cheval est bien. Your horse is fine.”

Her mouth moved silently, repeating his words. She smiled as if embarrassed. Like the lips bearing it, the smile was lovely. "My horse is fine. Merci, mon dieu. My lord," she added in Welsh. 

"We are making progress," he informed her, and dismissed the marshal.

She nodded obligingly, obviously again having no idea what Gwilym said. She gave the ring back to him. The metal felt warm and her hand felt cold. Minutes passed without either of them speaking. She took a sip of wine and, before Duana could lower the goblet, a boy ran forward with a pitcher of wine.

Gwen came halfway down the stairs, called for more hot water, and the lurking servants scattered to where they should be - abed for most of them. Someone must have alerted Merfyn, because a stocky silhouette appeared in the doorway, lacing his breeches. Merfyn cleared his throat. The Captain of the Guards and his knights, including Merfyn’s giant twin nephews, filed away to their beds.

As quickly as the bustle of people arrived, it vanished, leaving Duana sitting beside the roaring hearth and Gwilym standing nearby. Some servants would bed down in the great hall, but not until Gwilym retired.

Duana alternated between looking at Gwilym, the fire, and at him again. Gwilym cursed himself for spending his youth avoiding Father Leuan's lessons instead of learning something useful. Like a way to explain he did not have horns or a tail, or cavort with the Devil, as the Normans thought all Welshmen did. He saw enough brutality on the battlefield and did not care for it in his castle. He had a million questions for her: about her life and her journey and why she agreed to marry him. He wanted to ask what she knew of the Irish legends: the fairy folk, the bloodsucker, the banshee and the giants. If she had ever encountered a sea selkie, or knew a man who had. At least, he wanted to tell her there would be a hot bath and a soft bed for her upstairs, and he did not expect her to share either tonight. As Leuan had said, it was late, she was tired, and tomorrow would be soon enough.

He wished she would stop looking at him so curiously. It was unnerving, but he could not tell her that, either.

The French word for ‘hot’ was chaud. 'Show,' though that was a /ch/ sound, which, like /j/ did not exist in Welsh. He could demonstrate scrubbing; that should impress her. Bed, what was bed? 'Chambre' he remembered from his last trip to London, as in 'How much, and where is your bedchamber?' Another /ch/ damn it, but, with a money purse, Gwilym communicated well with a Southwark whore. Gwilym could buy cheese, venison, beer, and wine. He could answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in the Norman’s odd manner, using a single word without any context or qualification. He could say he was fine, she was fine, and assure a woman he would not hurt her. He could say ‘I will see you again soon, pretty girl,’ and ask where his boots went. He even knew three different ways to insult a Norman's manhood. He knew enough French to get by until he had a French-speaking noblewoman as a wife.

"My lady. . ." 

But Lady Duana’s eyes lowered as the fire warmed her. Gwilym closed his mouth. He watched her for a long time as he listened to logs in the hearth and wind outside the castle walls. Two hunting dogs approached, sniffed the fur hem of her cloak curiously, and lay down beside her chair.

Her goblet started to slip from her hand, and he reached forward quickly, taking it. She did not wake as he guided her hand to her lap. Her wrist felt cool, and her rich riding cloak looked damp. Gwilym wished he had thought to have a servant take her cloak. Since that opportunity had passed, he set her goblet aside and, without touching her, untied the wide lace at her throat. He pushed the heavy wool fabric off her shoulders as much as possible without disturbing her. The hem of the dark blue silk and velvet gown she wore underneath was muddy, but the garment looked dry. 

Gwilym wore a surcoat edged in velvet, and also owned a summer tunic embellished with silk: both ordered at Muretta’s urging last year. At Welsh Court, Prince Llewelyn had called Gwilym a dandy, but acquired an embroidered silk tunic and a red cloak trimmed broadly in velvet for himself. Gwilym had never seen such fine fabric on any woman except a queen, though. He touched the indigo velvet of Lady Duana’s sleeve. It felt no different from the wide strip of red velvet of Llewelyn’s cloak.

She opened her eyes. The fire crackled; he felt the heat on his face.

"You will get cold. Froid," he told her. Gwilym had Duana shift so he could remove the wet cloak. He laid the cloak over a rack near the hearth to dry. When he returned, he squatted in front of her and offered his hands.

After a moment, seeming uncertain, she held out her hands.

"Better?" he asked. He held her fingers between his palms. "You fell asleep. The maids are preparing on a bath for you," he assured her. "Supper is coming, I think."

Even though she probably did not understand a word he said, she nodded.

"So, you are cold and dirty and hungry and frozen, and your ill-mannered, barbarian husband speaks gibberish, to your ears. How do you find being my wife thus far?"

She blinked at him as he held her cold hands.

He felt as though he stepped into a swiftly moving stream; the water pulled him along with it and toward her. She was his wife, as odd as that seemed. Her lips looked warm and full and soft. One welcome kiss, he told himself. She was welcome. One polite kiss from the bridegroom to the bride to give the servants and knights something to tell their mothers and sisters and wives.

She flinched back but touched her tongue to her lips.

As he moved forward a hair's breadth to kiss her, he heard footsteps across the hall. He glanced over his shoulder. Gwenllian approached, smiling as she waddled in: broad faced and broad hipped, like the goddesses the Druids worshiped. She had shared a bed with Gwilym's father for years, even holding Father’s hand as he died. 

Gwilym removed his hands from Duana’s, and stood.

"Is this your bride, Llwynog?"

"My cold, tired bride, Gwen. Take good care of her, and see she gets something to eat. She does not speak Welsh." 

"Tell her to follow me upstairs. I have a bath ready for her."

He looked back at Duana. "Go with Gwen," he said, and pointed.

Duana let him help her up, and kept hold of his hand. 

Gwen curtseyed, said politely, "This way, my lady," and waited.

Duana looked at Gwilym warily, so he offered her his arm, as Merfyn had. That must be the fashion in London: to assume a woman too frail to walk alone. Gwilym escorted her through the hall, up the steps, and to the bedchamber the maids prepared. Many maids. In the minute Gwen had been absent, every female in the castle must have congregated in the room. Gwen ushered all but two of the women out, and busied herself checking the bed and the bath.

"Do I bring her to your bed after she is bathed?" Gwen asked him quietly. “Or do you come to her? How do Normans do this?”

"Much the same as we Welsh, I would think, but with awful accents,” Gwilym said. “In truth, I do not know. She- She is tired, and it is late. Find her some clean clothing; her baggage has not arrived. I will check on her later. For now, I am going to find Father Leuan. Send for me if you need me."

Gwen nodded.

Gwilym waited in the doorway, and Duana stood inside, watching Gwen. Looking up at him, she spoke slowly, in French, then in lilting Irish-Gaelic, but the word he understood was 'room.'

"Votre chambre," he told her, guessing. This was her room.

Duana nodded. Her pretty eyes still took his measure.

A kitchen maid came up the stairs, carrying a tray. Gwilym glanced at the food and nodded in approval. He heard anxious murmurs in the last weeks about him marrying an outsider, but his people, though curious, were making her welcome and comfortable. 

Gwen gestured for Duana to come forward, indicating the bath was ready.

"Où est votre chambre?" Duana asked Gwilym in French, enunciating carefully.

He pointed across the hallway. "Bon soir," Gwilym told her, and in Welsh, "Good night," as he closed the heavy door. He exhaled and went in search of Leuan for some language lessons. By morning, he planned to be able to say her name and something besides 'How much?' clearly in French.

*~*~*~*

The candle had not burned down a quarter hour before Gwen knocked softly on the open door of Gwilym’s office. He glanced up. Gwen touched each of her wrists silently, worriedly. 

Gwilym nodded he understood. His stomach turned, but he understood.

Leuan looked puzzled, which was fine.

"I sent those two chattering maids away. I have more water heating for her ladyship’s bath," Gwen told Gwilym. “Will you wait?”

“As long as necessary,” Gwilym assured her. 

Gwen lingered in the doorway. “Must you- Does it-” She inhaled. “She flinches as I try to bathe her. You are right; she is tired, and surely sore and, I think, too thin. Does it matter-” Gwen hesitated again. “I know what my Llwynog will tell me, but does it matter to the Christian marriage, or to the Norman King, if her ladyship would rest?” Gwen asked obliquely. “If I would merely put her to bed, this night? And the next few nights, as well?”

That was as close as Gwen would come to meddling in Gwilym’s affairs. If he told her to strip Duana naked and march her in, Gwen would comply. 

“My wife is tired, and the Norman King is not here. I will not tell King John if you will not, Gwen. Let her ladyship sleep.” 

She nodded in approval. “She is lovely, Llwynog.”

"I think so, too, Gwen."

“She is your legal wife? Not merely betrothed, but your wife?” 

Gwilym had explained this to Gwen, but the Norman marriage customs seeming odd to him neared incomprehensible to her. Gwen had never traveled out of Gwynedd. To her, England and its customs were as foreign as the moon.

“She is my wife. The King gave her to me.”

“The Norman King is a fool,” Gwen pronounced. “Even a king cannot give a woman to a man. A woman gives herself, or she does not.”

Again, Gwilym nodded. He agreed.

*~*~*~*

The last time Leuan drilled these French phrases, the answering voice was changing awkwardly and its owner more interested in warring and whoring. That was twenty-five years, countless wars, a son, a daughter who had vanished, a father who had died, and a faithless hearth wife ago. Who could have known his lord would have more than his fill of death and empty women in such a short span of time?

"Je suis. Tu es. Il est-" Father Leuan recited. 

"Nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont. I remember this part, Leuan. Move on."

"Je m'appelle William. Guillaume, to be correct. Comment vous-"

"We know each other's names, Leuan. Teach me to say something useful, like 'you have eyes like a deep blue lake' and 'I am not a barbarian.'"

They had sat at the hearth in Gwilym's bedchamber for more than an hour, reviewing the old lessons, with little progress made. If Leuan taught a specific phrase, Gwilym said it too roughly to be understood, and immediately forgot it.

"Such effort for a wife you do not want," the priest teased. That bait did not get a nibble, so he suggested, "Try her name again, at least. Say it as two words, and put them together."

Gwilym ran his fingers through his hair. The closest translation of her name in Welsh combined with those intense blue eyes made his mind wander. A moment later, he looked to Leuan and asked, “What?” 

The priest sighed. "It is a hopeless quest, my lord. You either learn a second tongue in youth or you will speak it roughly." Leuan smothered a yawn. The candle burned past nine o'clock, and far past Leuan’s bedtime. Except for Gwilym, the castle slept and arose with the chickens. 

Gwilym left his chair, crossed the room, and flopped onto the mattress, sinking into the goose-down tick. "I am still far enough from Death's fingers I should be able to say her name. French is close enough to Latin I can read it - more or less - why can I not speak it? If I could see it, Leuan. If I could see how to say it, I think I could remember, but these silly drills make my head hurt."

"You should sleep and see if you are more able to learn in the morning."

Gwilym took his advice, and within a few minutes, surrendered to the night. The dogs hurried to claim the best spots in the bed with their master. 

His face looked so young in sleep, Leuan thought. 

Decades ago, the Old Lord rode into the bailey with a boy not yet three years old and lowered little Llwynog from the saddle and to Leuan’s arms. “Raise a nobleman who will do what he must to protect what he must,” had been the Old Lord’s command to a stunned and rather heretical Templar priest. “A Christian,” he had said. “And leave my son only once he has no further need of you.”

A big dog circled, matting down a place beside Gwilym. Gwilym's hand moved in response to the motion of the bed. Gwilym rubbed the dog's head and shifted deeper into the furs without opening his eyes or pulling off his boots.

Taking one candle and snuffing the rest, Leuan quietly made his way out.

*~*~*~*

As the son of a Druid priestess – something the Church and Templars did not need to know - Leuan had witnessed Old Magic as a boy. The ceremonies, the circles. The sacrifices, even. Those nights seemed, and were, a lifetime ago, but he remembered. Still, Father Leuan had never seen a ghost. And certainly not the ghost of a dead woman at his lordship’s desk.

Leuan’s shriek woke Gwilym, who rose from bed with a dagger in his hand. Gwilym reached his office in time to see a new book hit the floor with its leaves scattering, and pale legs fleeing, and long red hair flowing as Lady Duana ran away.

Gwilym’s command for her to stop was answered by the sound Duana’s bedchamber door slamming closed across the hall.

"What happened? Why was she here? Why did you scream?" Gwilym demanded. Leuan stood near the desk, clutching the cross he wore around his neck. Gwilym rubbed his eyes. "Did you frighten her?"

"She frightened me. I thought she was Tang. She, she, she- She should not be looking at your books," Leuan insisted haughtily.

"Why was she here?" Gwilym asked again.

Leuan gathered up the priceless pages, each a work of art, and cursed a woman's foolishness.

"What did she need? Why would-" Gwilym watched Leuan a moment. 

The priest arranged pages and muttered, oblivious to Gwilym's scrutiny.

"Give me the book, Leuan," Gwilym requested. "I wish you would not have yelled at her. She is tired and frightened and skittish, and if she wants to look at it, she can."

"But Llwynog," the priest said, wide-eyed, "she was married for years with no children. You have one son. A baseborn son. She should not be looking at books."

Gwilym jerked the book away from Leuan. He disliked Norman superstitions creeping into Wales. "I know my way around women, and books have nothing to do with begetting sons. Not unless the illustrations are very well done. Go to your bed, old man, and leave me to mine."

Rebuked into angry silence, the priest huffed off to his quarters above the kitchens, leaving Gwilym to his books and woman and oddness.

Gwilym took a deep breath as he left his office. He knocked once, and the door to Duana’s bedchamber came open. He saw the bolt on the floor; some helpful servant took the lock off her door so it could not be barred.

"My lady," he called softly, trying not to wake the castle. "My lady, j’ai le - shit!" What was the damn thing called? Book? How was that said in French? Not lives. Not livers. Curse all Normans and their bad manners and their stupid laws and their damn tongue-tying language. Livre! "Livre," he said. "My lady, j'ai le livre. I have the book."

He repeated the French to himself silently, hoping he had not announced he possessed a liver complaint or the French pox. She did not answer, so Gwilym knocked again. The door swung open, and he forgot about the book.

Duana stood near the hearth like a soldier waiting for the battle to reach her. A torch burned on either side of the hearth, casting long, ethereal shadows across the room. She stepped back and said something Gwilym assumed was not an apology or an invitation to her bed. Her borrowed chemise fell in folds at her feet, and her long auburn hair wrapped her like Devil's breath. No wonder the Norman King coveted her. No wonder Leuan thought she was not of their world. Gwilym wanted to touch her to ensure she was real, and not one a vision that crept into a man's bed after he slept alone too many nights.

She was beautiful. Beautiful and terrified. Below a too-long sleeve, Gwilym saw a glint of silver in her right hand. A small knife.

Gwilym remained in the doorway. He raised his right hand to her, palm out, in the gesture used to assure a skittish animal he would not harm it. "Vous êtes beaux. Bien,” he corrected. “You are fine. Je ne suis pas si grand. I will not hurt you," he managed, borrowing phrases from what he now thought of as his 'whorehouse French' vocabulary.

"I am sorry. The priest frightened me." Her voice trembled, but she spoke slowly so he could understand. "I will not touch your books again, my lord."

Touch the damn books. Take out the pages and roll on them, he thought. But do not run away.

Her hair was down because she expected to sleep with him, Gwilym surmised; otherwise women braided their hair for the night. She was his wife and, after the maids left her, she dutifully came to him. Finding Gwilym with Father Leuan, she must have sat at his desk to wait until Gwilym sent for her to come to his bed.

He saw the silhouette of her legs through the thin chemise, and the shape of her high breasts, the nipples erect. Gwilym swallowed dryly.

She took another step backward. Her arm did not move, but - with the deftness of an Infidel assassin - the silver knife covertly turned and vanished up the sleeve of her chemise. 

"Je suis bien," he told her. That was not the right phrase. Stupid, stupid, he cursed himself. "Le livre est bien." No better. Tell her how the horse, the wine, the whore, and the cheese are all fine.

He stared at her. She stared back, either trembling or shivering.

Gwilym held out the book and pointed to her, gesturing she could have it. He held up one finger, indicating he wanted her to wait, and laid the book on a chest inside her room. By the time he went to his bedchamber and returned, she held the book against her chest.

He held up his bedrobe for her. After a few seconds, she approached and let him slip the heavy robe on her one arm at a time. They stood facing each other again.

He wondered what became of the little knife, but it seemed rude to ask. 

"Do you want to see the book? Le livre? Je lis- I can read the book," he offered. He wanted to show her he was not a pagan heathen. He had learned Greek and Roman and Norman history, whether he liked it or not. He had been on Crusade, seen France and Rome and the Holy Land. He could play music and recite poetry and, he supposed, if the need arose, knock another knight off a horse with a big, dull spear and call it fun. Gwilym could read and write and speak several languages - just not the same ones she spoke.

"I would like to read the book, my lord," she answered slowly.

He started for his chambers and gestured for her to follow him. She took a few steps, but could not manage to carry the big book and hold up the too-long robe and chemise to walk without tripping.

He held out his hands for the book, and she relinquished it nervously.

"Pieds. Feet," he told her.

"Cold feet," she responded in Welsh.

In his office, she waited as he went to the hearth and added logs to the fire. 

He pointed to the sofa, and she sat down. He brought blanket for her, and a candle, and sat next to her with the heavy book on his lap. She smelled like soap and clean linens. He tilted the cover so she could see the illustration. A Welsh dragon.

"I am sorry. I was-” Her brow wrinkled. “Curieux. The priest frightened me," she said again.

He nodded, since it seemed important to her he understand.

"’The Legends and History of Wales.’ The book is written in Latin," he said, and opened it. "But this- This is French. This was written by the scribe who copied the book.”

She followed his finger as he read by candlelight: a plea on the reader’s conscience to pray for the poor- Gwilym stopped. The poor something. ‘Moine,’ whatever that was. His pronunciation was horrid, but he could read the benediction well enough for him to comprehend it, at least. 

“Monk,” Duana supplied, with her finger close to his. She spoke quickly in French, and after a few seconds’ thought, said, “‘For the soul of the poor monk who wrote it.'"

He looked at her. "A man read this book for you?"

She answered in French, "No." 

"You can read?" She did not respond, but did watch him intently. "That is why you want the book. I do not care if you can read. I am surprised. Je suis surpris,” he added. “Who has taught you?”

"My husband. My husband taught me to read," she answered. "French and Latin and Gaelic. To speak French and some Welsh, as well."

What husband took time to teach such skills to a young wife, Gwilym wondered. Gwilym saw his own children could read. Dafydd wrote well, when Dafydd extracted his prick from the King’s kitchen maids long enough to pick up a quill. Gwilym’s daughter could write her name. She had known letters and could cypher well, for a girl of nine. Duana had been a spoil of war, though. A pretty commoner some nobleman married solely out of love. Some nobleman the King stripped of his kingdom and executed as a traitor in order to have her.

No baggage carts made their way through Wales, Gwilym realized. She had no jewels or other gowns or little lap dog or furniture. Duana possessed only the rich clothes she arrived in and the fine mare she had ridden. She did not even have slippers or bedrobe or a spare chemise. Gwilym suspected she was not a discarded mistress, but something far more dangerous: a beautiful woman who had scorned the King.

He could not see her wrists under the too-long sleeves, but what Gwen meant earlier was Duana had bruises. From shackles or being bound. Or from a man's hands. If King John wanted something, he took it; consent was optional, as other pretty Welsh women knew.

Bruises healed. Memories faded, Gwilym told himself. Tonight was not the first time he wanted to kill the Norman King.

"This is your book so long as you remain in Aber. It is a gift." He handed it to her. 

She took it, but visibly tensed. "Are you sending me back to London, my lord? I do not want to go back. I am sorry. I will not read if you do not want me to. My husband would tell you, I am a good wife."

"That is why you are in my rooms. You..." he stopped, searching for the right words. Not knowing any polite term in French, he pointed to her, to himself, and through the doorway, to his canopied bed.

Duana nodded. She smoothed the cover of the book and cast down her eyes unconvincingly.

"As you wish," he agreed easily. He leaned back and rested his arm along the top of the sofa.

"I, I do not want to go back to the King, my lord," she answered evasively. "I do not like him."

"I do not like the King, either."

She nodded and sat waiting. Her knuckles, as she held the book, were white, and her shoulders an inch above their normal altitude.

"Remain in Wales. It is bad to travel in winter," he invited. She glanced up. Her eyes were curious and keenly intelligent. "I am a good husband and a very good soldier. King John will find no love in Aber. I promise you."

"You are not angry?"

Regardless of why she asked, he shook his head. 

"I may stay?"

"As you wish. In Wales, you may stay or go as you wish, my lady. We are not Normans; you are not chattel." He hoped he said the right word: the French one meaning property and not the English one meaning cows. "Do you understand?"

"I do. Thank you, my lord."

"Lord Gwilym," he reminded her. "William."

"Gwilym," she repeated, but settled upon, "William."

"Good. Better than me. I cannot say your name, but I do know it is not 'Duna.'"

"Duana," she said slowly, with a lilting Irish accent.

"It is not a name for a woman in Welsh. 'Dan' is 'tan', and 'danas' are-" He put his hands to his head, indicating deer antlers. "Choose another name before you become 'Lady Dana' to Merfyn."

"What is Dana?"

"It is not a name for a woman in Welsh," he repeated. 

He noticed, once she understood the meaning of a Welsh word, she used it, interspersing it with French or Latin. If she heard him use a word in French or Latin or English or Manx Gaelic, she used it as well, producing a uniquely jumbled language, but one he understood. She was quick, this woman. 

"What did your first husband call you?"

"Countess."

He smirked.

"Caithrin?" she asked. "Is there a Catherine? That is my mother's name."

"Catrin." 

In Welsh, the word sounded like a dog trying to clear a bone from its throat. She raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Scully? That is your father's clan. Scully is not a Welsh word. There would be no confusion."

"My brothers are the O'Scullys, the sons of Scully the Mason. There is no word for a daughter." He waited, bemused at her perplexed expression. "Do you expect me to come to you if you call 'Scully'?"

"I am a fortunate man if you come to me, whatever I called you."

A fine thing to say to a woman, he congratulated himself, and he did not think he bungled a word.

Apparently unmoved, she folded her arms across her chest, and told him abruptly, "I can write, too.” 

“Show me.” Gwilym went to his desk and gestured for her to sit behind it. As she settled into his chair, he handed her a quill and rooted around until he found the ink. 

Duana considered a piece of blank parchment and asked, “French or Latin or Irish-Gaelic?"

“As you wish.”

She dipped the quill into the ink. 

“I have a son.” Gwilym said it so urgently she glanced up. “A baseborn son. Dafydd. He is fourteen. He is at Court, so he will not trouble you.”

Ink dripped from the quill back into the inkwell. “Can a baseborn son still inherit your kingdom, in Wales?”

“This baseborn son can, if he will fight for it.” That was true, though equally true of some Welsh nobleman’s legitimate sons. He shrugged one shoulder. “I am baseborn.” 

She responded with a question including the words “legitimate son” and “certain.”

Gwilym nodded. A legitimate son’s succession would be more certain. However, since Gwilym had just been married to a childless widow, Dafydd would remain the sole heir to Gwynedd.

“I had a daughter who vanished. Is gone," Gwilym added stiltedly. 

Duana looked up again with a little crease between her brows. “Is gone to where? To be married?”

Gwilym opened his mouth, but gestured broadly he did not know. “Is gone to God’s grace.”

“Oh,” Duana said softly. “I am sorry.” She tapped the quill uncomfortably and focused on the parchment. "I met your son David at Court. He is a fine young man."

"Yes," he agreed in French. 

"Prince Llewelyn said your mistress died."

"My hearth wife. Like a mistress, to Normans. My children's mother died in a fire after our daughter was born. Many years ago."

She stopped writing to respond. "My husband's stepson brought me home. I did not like him, and his stepfather intervened. We were married for ten years until the King- Until my husband refused to give me to the King, and so the King saw I no longer had a husband."

She pushed back her long hair to keep it from the ink. To a casual observer, she seemed to accept her lot in life, so long as it was not King John. But she was no more accepting than he, Gwilym realized, just too tired to fight tonight after so many battles. Or she chose to fight the battles she could win with the weapons she had. 

"My father brought me home from King Richard's coronation for our cook, Gwen, who had no children by him. Father said I was his son by a hearth wife who had died, but some men question his claim. That year, when King Richard was crowned, the London ghettos were burned and the Jews killed. My father, at my age, had no sons, and had pledged himself as a full Templar monk. The pledge cannot be undone, my lady. I look like him, but some men say how convenient Father would ride home from London that year with a son of his own blood, so late in life, when he could never marry to get one.”

Gwilym had calculated the dates long ago, but never told another soul. She did not even look up. "Your father was kind to find a child for Gwen to love. It is empty to have no children."

Perhaps she did not understand. Had Gwilym's father known Gwilym's mother at all, she was likely a Jew or a prostitute. Or a mistress he had totted on Crusade or to some war, but not his wife or hearth wife. Thirty years ago, a powerful Welsh nobleman could have brought home a bastard son and designated the son his heir. Now, the Church had crept too far into northern Wales. With enough power and wealth and cunning – and no other options - Gwilym’s baseborn son could inherit Gwynedd. Prince Llewelyn’s baseborn sons inheriting the Welsh throne was less certain. 

"I may have no more Welsh blood than you, my lady,” Gwilym told her. “I have become one of the Welsh. The lost people."

She finished her sentence and blotted the ink to dry it. "We are both in need of une ancre, Lord William. Perhaps it is in Aber." 

"Perhaps," he agreed cautiously, not knowing what 'une ancre' was. However, if they needed it, he would arrange it in the morning. Une ancre, and a second chair on the dais downstairs, and a chair beside the fire.

She gave the quill and ink back to him. After he put them away, he stood. She stood as well, and waited, with the borrowed robe and chemise falling over her bare feet.

The nuances of language became vital. Gwilym did not want her to think he rejected her as his wife - for any reason - but he want to force her, either. As Leuan said, an unconsummated Norman marriage by proxy was easily annulled. Gwilym suspected Duana knew that. He also suspected she knew something of Welsh law, and remaining in Wales was to her advantage. 

In England, a man could beat his wife to death on a whim. In England, a brutal husband damaged his property, and he might be thought a fool, but his wife was his to treat as he pleased. Every time Gwilym trudged southwest to pay homage to the King, Gwilym wondered why more Englishmen did not wake to their wife's dagger in their throat. Perhaps that was why the Norman custom of wives sleeping separately from their husbands developed.

Lastly, Gwilym suspected a bright, pretty young widow with many offers of marriage had not chosen to marry a northern Welsh warlord based on a childhood wish to see Merlin and Druids. Perhaps she sought Prince Llewelyn's protection - or affection - or heard of Gwilym through Dafydd. Or she knew of Gwilym by some other means, though he could not fathom how. For all Gwilym knew, she sought revenge for some relative he killed in battle a decade ago, and she planned to poison his tea.

He thought the poisoned tea unlikely, but there remained too many unknown factors, complicated by trying to communicate with her in the common tongue of Babel. Gwilym preferred not to apply battlefield strategy to his own bedchamber, and besides, his judgment regarding pretty women always steered him toward danger.

If he died of poisoned tea, he wanted it to be with a smile on his face.

"Would you like to learn more Welsh, my lady?" he asked as he walked her to her bedchamber. She accompanied him without objection, but he had known she would. He sensed her trepidation, though. "Or you could teach me Irish-Gaelic? What did you say when I knocked on your door?"

She looked down. Her hair fell over her cheeks. "I said I had been beaten by a king and so I was not afraid of you," she admitted. "I lied. I was frightened."

"You were right to be frightened. Threaten what is mine, and I am far more dangerous than the Norman King," he told her. 

"That was what my husband told me. My first husband," she corrected quickly.

Outside her bedchamber, he rested his hands on either side of the doorway as she faced him. He felt too tall, as if he towered over her. He spotted the little eating knife. It lay on a chest near her bed, innocently glistening in the firelight as if forgotten by a maid. The hilt was ornate, and in the French style.

Duana stepped back, and he did not step forward. "After your journey, you should sleep. I should not bother you. After you have rested, come to me, and we will see about Welsh lessons. Winters are long in Aber. There is time."

"It is so cold here. When does spring come?"

"May. The peasants plant in May. Be patient. It seems like winter lasts forever, but it does not," he promised. "Good night, my lady," he said, stepping back. He wanted to kiss her, but he did not.

"Good night, my lord," she answered.

He earned a mysterious smile that must melt the hearts of kings and commoners alike, and her door closed.

Gwilym remained in the doorway with the stout door not far from his nose. It seemed romantic and chivalrous as he did it, but he realized he sent a lovely woman - who happened to be his wife - to her room to sleep alone. Which meant, unless he wanted to find a willing serving girl - and endure all the complications that involved - or ride to the village to find a prostitute, he would also sleep alone tonight.

Frankly, it seemed impractical.

Gwilym looked at the bolt to her door, which still lay on the floor. Inside the room, the bed squeaked as Duana settled in. He glanced at the door latch, considering. He shook his head, silently amused with himself, and turned toward his own chambers. He was either bewitched, or Merfyn had brought a bad case of Norman chivalry back from London and given it to Gwilym.

*~*~*~*

Duana could not imagine how she recognized this William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, but she knew she had seen him somewhere. Clearly, he did not know her, and she could not understand how that could be.

She liked this man. Her new Welsh husband. He seemed intelligent, willful, kind, but mostly she liked the lack of pretense about him. If he thought she was cold, he took her hands and warmed them with his. If he had a question, he asked it, and he listened to her answer. He was not intimidated by women, or by many men, she suspected. Prince Llewelyn was right: William was rather pretty, in a dangerous way. He felt no need to rattle his sword or bark at servants to prove his power; his people respected but did not fear him, which said a great deal about the kind of nobleman he was. He was not a Norman, but neither was she. He was a warrior, but out of necessity. He was not cruel without cause, she suspected, but give him cause and the wounds he inflicted - physical and otherwise - were unfailingly mortal.

She wished she understood more of what he said to her, because he was interesting. However, she doubted Father Leuan approved of William’s ‘Legends of Wales’ book, and certainly not the drawings littering his desk: mythical beasts and sea sirens and odd maps of odd lands. Sketches of the planets and the stars. And, secreted beneath the other parchments, she had discovered drawings of pretty, nude women, and some of men and women making love - all well-drawn and all in the same style. Lord William’s hand, Duana suspected. 

Duana had not expected Lord William to be tall. Or dark-haired and dark-eyed. His son, David, stood Prince Llewelyn’s height and had fair hair. Prince Llewelyn called David and his own son, Gruffydd, the ‘unholy duo,’ of London Court, and Duana had envisioned Lord William as similar to his son: kind-hearted, but loud and boisterous and mischievous. And bearded. This Welsh custom of being clean-shaven made the men look so young and bare.

She and Lord William were becoming friends, she thought, and that was good - except they were not friends. William was her new husband and lord. Anytime he wanted, he could summon her to his bed, strip off her clothes, and do with her as he liked. Her body was not her property, but her husband's.

This William seemed a man who, if he wanted something, generally took it.

Duana stole an eating knife from some castle some nights ago, secreting it up her sleeve at supper, and later, inside her boot. Before Duana could hide it in Aber, Gwen discovered it. Duana doubted the old woman thought Duana traveled with her favorite eating knife in her boot. Duana saw Gwen examine the knife, and slip it in a pocket as she left – to tell Lord William, Duana assumed. To Duana’s surprise, ten minutes later, Gwen returned with more hot water and the knife, cleaned and polished. Duana’s shoes and clothing were wet or dirty or both, and the maids took everything to be dried and cleaned and laundered. The little eating knife, however, rested politely atop a chest in Duana’s chamber, along with a jeweled comb from Duana’s hair and a little wooden cross her father carved for her years ago. 

Sore and bone-tired, Duana rolled from one side to the other, trying to get warm and find a comfortable position. 

She chose to marry him; he had no choice in marrying her. She arrived early; perhaps Lord William had a mistress in his bed and did not want Duana to know. Maybe there was some Welsh custom she did not know or he thought her forward for coming to him, though that was what he had told her to do. Perhaps he did not want her, or want her as his wife, though she did not think that the case. Or he wanted something she could not give him. She could submit, even trust he would not hurt her needlessly, but she did not think she could feign passion. Duana might not be good at obedience, but she was awful at acting.

Wales was so cold. So quiet now. So far from the rest of the world.

She missed her husband. Her old husband, not the new one across the hall. William of Aber seemed a good man, but he was a stranger. She wanted her old husband next to her so if something went wrong, she only had speak and he would see everything put right.

She had no maids, or companions, or even guards outside the door. She was accustom to maids sleeping on the floor beside her bed. Even a strange Welsh maid would have been welcome. 

She almost wished William would send for her. At least she would not be alone. It still hurt between her legs, yet she felt so empty inside.

If she slept tonight, she would most certainly dream.

Duana opened her eyes, looking at the canopy over her bed. She knew where she had encountered Lord William.

*~*~*~*

By the Blessed Virgin, Gwilym hoped Duana had come to him. Gotten cold and lonely in her bed and come to him to pursue her studies of Welsh and Welshmen. An introductory lesson, even - but unfortunately, that did not seem to be the case. As Duana tip-toed into Gwilym’s office, her manner suggested a covert search for a late-night snack rather than a carnal encounter. 

He lay on the sofa, appraising the situation. She had been abed; she had plaited her long, curly hair so it would not tangle. She wore his bedrobe and held the hem high enough he saw her ankles in the flicker of light from the candle she carried. She dropped the heavy material and stood in his office doorway, looking puzzled.

"Do you not sleep, Lord William?" she asked in a whisper, as if she was not roaming the castle in the witching hour.

Still afflicted with a case of Norman chivalry, he stood. "Do you not sleep, my lady?" 

"I have dreams," she said quietly.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, though she did not seem fearful. Or newly awakened from a nightmare. Gwilym wondered if she had slept at all in the last few hours, and if the monsters prowling her dreams were acquainted with the monsters in his.

She shook her head. "No. Only awake." 

"Stay, if you wish." Gwilym gestured for her to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. "We are married. Pass the night with me," he offered casually.

A second of stilted silence followed in which Gwilym realized the French phrase must have a second, less polite meaning. Whorehouse French, he reminded himself. He opened his mouth, but closed it again.

She sat down anyway. After a moment, she folded her bare feet under her on the sofa and wrapped the fabric of his robe around her against the cold. Gwilym had left the narrow window open and let the hearth die, not noticing for his own sake. Many winter mornings, he woke to ice crystals floating in the pitcher of wine on his desk. 

He covered the window and busied himself rebuilding the fire. Once it burned well, he returned to the sofa.

Gwilym sat a respectable distance from her. She watched the orange and yellow flames consume the logs in the hearth. After a few moments of watching her watch the fire, he confessed. "I dream of my daughter. I watch for her to return."

She hesitated. "Was your daughter taken by soldiers?" 

The old ache still echoed in his heart - a father's frantic, desperate fear and as the fear burned out, emptiness and despair. He told himself parents lost children every day. Many babies did not live long enough to be named. As the seasons passed, he waited for the emptiness inside him to heal. As of yet, it had not. 

"My brothers found me, after a time," she told him. "Perhaps you could find your daughter and bring her home. If- If you would still want her." 

At first, Gwilym nodded politely, as if accepting a dish of food he did not want. But he stopped nodding, exhaled, and answered honestly. "Of course I would still want her, but she was nine. Soldiers would not take her. Two summers ago, she was gone. I could not find her. Perhaps she went too far and got lost. Fell. Fell into water. A wolf," he said, using the Latin word, "Or witches, as the villagers say. In my dreams, I-" He touched his temple, his chest, and looked to her, uncertain of the word in a language she might know.

"You think?" she guessed. "Believe? Know?" 

"Believe. In my dreams, I believe she is alive."

"You do not sleep while you watch for her? So you can open the castle gates?"

"It makes no sense, I know." He scrutinized her for some sign she made fun of him. "But I watch." 

"You cannot find your daughter and bring her home, but you can watch and let her in if she finds her way." 

He nodded silently. 

A long time passed without either of them speaking. 

"I watch for King John or his soldiers to come again." She addressed the fire. "Or my husband's stepson and his friend. I remember them. In my dreams, they are alive, though I believe otherwise."

She sat with one hand on her lap and one resting on the arm of the sofa. Duana must have noticed Gwilym looking at her bruised right wrist; she pulled down the sleeve of her chemise to cover it. 

Gwilym stood and went to the window. He removed the screen. The tall, narrow interior opening was wider than an arrowslit, but his hand, wrist to fingertip, would have spanned the gap between the stones. 

"My great grandfather built this castle." He glanced back over his shoulder at her. Looking out again, he said, "From this window, you can see the pass through the mountains. That is the only road to the valley below. To our backs is the sea, so anyone who enters or leaves on foot can be seen from this corner of the castle." 

He heard movement and sensed her behind him, so he stepped to the side to let her look out. 

"You are safe here," he said. "Those fires in Aber Village? Those are families: people ignorant of kings and books and charters. People who marry for love and lust and close their eyes at night trusting I will keep them safe. They know there are things in this world they do not know, and they trust me to face those words and men and monsters in their place." He put a hand on the small of her back. She did not shy away. "I worry I will fail - they expect more than I can give - but now I have another reason to keep watch. You can sleep, my lady. Alone or in my bed, you are safe."

He turned and pressed his mouth to hers carefully, for a few seconds. "My God, you are a lovely woman. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you."

An introductory lesson, he reminded himself. She was bruised and skittish, and too many nights had passed since he was with a woman. Months. Not only Muretta, but it had been months since any woman. He had barely noticed.

He sorely noticed it now.

"Why did you choose me?" He asked softly, toying with a lock of her auburn hair. "Of all men, why me?"

She did not speak or try to pull away or plunge an eating knife into his gut, so he kissed her a second time. “Do you want the priest to bless us?" He would rouse Leuan this moment if necessary.

Duana continued to look up at him. Her lips were fuller and redder, but she did not answer. 

He tucked the lock of hair behind her ear and looked down at her expectantly. 

She looked up at him, seeming uneasy but also expectant.

He realized the difficulty. "I am speaking Welsh: right now, and for some time. You have not understood anything I have said. Nothing about you being lovely or in my bed or a priest blessing us. We are affectionately discussing the spring planting and MayDay bonfires, for all you know."

She blinked uncertainly.

"You missed a fine speech I lack the courage to repeat in bumbling French."

Gwilym laughed at himself. Duana's eyes twinkled, and he saw that mysterious smile again - one causing men to ride their horses into trees as they watched her. 

Gwilym replaced the screen in the narrow window of his office. He closed the shutters, lit a second candle, and offered his hand rather than his arm. "Come," he told her. 

She took his hand and followed him, for the first time, to his bedchamber.

He sat the candle in the nook at the head of his bed, and picked up a warm fur coverlet. He wrapped the fur around her and guided her to one of the windows of his bedchamber. The snowstorm had stopped and, as he opened the window, the ocean murmured in the distance.

"Listen." He rested his hands on her shoulders. "The Irish Sea is below us. You look toward your homeland."

She smiled again as she studied the black night.

"I have serfs on the Isle of Man who are not Celts. They are the sons of the Norsemen. Vikings." He used the English word. "They tell of traveling to lands in the west. They say, across that sea, past your homeland, is a land of stones, and a land of wine, and one of meadows. Vikings tell of the people of those lands: short, dark men with dark hair, but no beard or hair on their body." He moved his hands to her waist. The fox fur blanket felt sleek against his fingers. "On Crusade in the Holy Land, I saw men like the Vikings saw. Not infidels, but Mongols from the east, far beyond where any Christian man has traveled. Do you know what that means, my lady?" He spoke carefully in French or Welsh with an occasional word in Latin or Manx or English.

"You believe they are the same men," she said. He felt one of her small hands on his. "The men the Vikings saw in the west and the men you saw from the Far East."

"I do. My great-grandmother was a Viking. Father said her blood in my veins makes me a wanderer and causes me to ponder what lies beyond the sea and behind the stars. To question things I should not. I will tell you a secret that would get me burned at the stake in London, pretty girl," he whispered. "If I am right and the Church is wrong, there are no dragons at the end of our world. If I am right, there is no end to our world. From here, if we knew the route west, we could circle the world and come back to this same point. Our world is-" He used the Latin word. "-infinite." 

"You are correct. That is a dangerous thing to believe, Lord William," she told him softly.

"I told you; I am a dangerous man." He put his face near hers, looking out the window with her. "You know my secret, so I cannot send you back to London. Even if you do not want to be my wife, I cannot let you go back to the Norman King. I must keep you from him; my life depends on it." He kissed her cheek and turned her so he kissed her lips gently. "So choose as you like. Or, if you are unsure, ask," he whispered. "I will never be mistaken for a Norman but I could teach you Welsh."

"I may choose?"

He kissed down the side of her neck and whispered in her ear, "You may. I pray, choose me."

"I did choose you. Tell me in Welsh how to say 'You are a good man. A kind, brave man. Thank you for marrying me.'"

"I had no choice in the matter, but you are welcome, my lady." He pulled the lace of her chemise, untying it. "I am at your disposal. Is there more you require of me tonight?"

"Teach me to say, 'tonight, I will do as you wish, my lord, but I came to get my book.'" 

He stopped, his hand on the linen cord at the open throat of her chemise. He was a nobleman. He did not pursue other men's wives or unwilling peasant girls, so being turned down by a woman was a novel thing. He set the terms, though.

"You came to get the book." He repeated the words in French, then in Welsh, more surprised than angry.

She nodded, looking down.

He pulled back a few inches, laughing at himself again. The dogs perked up their ears at the sound of his voice, ready to sound the alarm if anything was amiss. Nothing was amiss. Though clearly, he was bewitched. Being bewitched explained this foolishness. Sending her to sleep alone was one thing but refraining once she was in his bedchamber... Merfyn and his knights would piss themselves laughing.

"I swear by Christ on the cross, you will be the death of me, you pretty Irish girl." He stepped back. "Llyfr. Llyfr is book. Wait here."

She nodded.

Gwilym returned carrying the book and the fancy little eating knife from her chamber. The silver handle was ornate, the blade dull, and the whole silly knife poorly made and balanced. It lacked a guard. Once the hilt got bloody, she would never keep a grip on it. Also, since Duana lacked a man’s strength and reach, the blade should be long and razor sharp so it sliced easily. Her knife was useless for anything except melting down for the silver or weighing down a fishing line.

“Do you have another knife?” He toyed with it as he walked to her. 

Her eyes followed his hand. “The King’s knights took it.”

Gwilym stood in front of her. “Do you plan to kill me as I sleep?” He thought it wise to ask.

“Not tonight.”

He tossed her useless knife aside, gave her the book, and went to his bed. Gwilym lifted the mattress and showed her the dagger hidden beneath it. He walked around the bed, showing her a second dagger secreted on the right side. “If you sleep-” He pantomimed sleeping on his belly, reaching for the dagger, and rising with it in his right, then left hand, ready to fight. “Do you know how to use a dagger?”

“I do.”

He doubted that but did not argue. He closed the shutters, put the oiled screen back in the window, and tossed more wood on the fire. Duana held the book against her chest like a shield.

“Oddi gwely,” he ordered an old dog on the bed. The animal sighed unhappily but slid to the floor. “Get out of my bed.” Gwilym translated loosely for Duana. “The dogs sleep on the bed, since it is often empty. If you do not want them, say ‘oddi gwely.’”

The dog turned in a circle and settled near the hearth with the others. Gwilym put his hand on Duana’s back and guided her to the bed. He folded down the furs and blankets, and helped her climb in. She laid the book beside her and sat watching him.

"What does my name mean in Welsh? Why do you not say it?"

Gwilym had closed one side of the bed curtains. He stopped with his hand on the heavy fabric of the other side. "Under. 'Dana' means 'under' or 'beneath' someone.”

“Ah.” Her cheeks reddened. 

“I will gladly say it as often as possible, dear wife. For now, though-" He pointed to the sofa in the next room. He pointed to his chest. “Llwynog ap Gwilym. Fox, son of William. Lord of Gwynedd. In Welsh, you would say, ‘rwy'n caniatáu’ for ‘I consent,’ but I understand the French word ‘yes,’ as well.” 

“I will remember,” Duana promised.

He closed the bed curtains. Gwilym left the bedchamber door open, and heard several dogs bound onto the bed. The spoiled hunting dogs were not ordered to leave. 

Gwilym settled on the sofa and resumed staring out the window, on guard to intercept any bad dreams making their way up his mountain. The candle burned on the desk, flickering in the cold breeze. The notch indicated one o'clock and then two and three. The witching hour passed as he kept watch and listened to the soft breathing from the next room.

He was indeed bewitched. But he did not mind. Normans said pretty women with red hair were witches. They could change into animals and haunt a man's dreams. Familiars, they were called, masquerading as a man's wife. As he drifted into the light, watchful sleep of a soldier, he heard the rustling of little feet against the floor and saw a flash of red hair. A familiar soul haunted his dreams. He was bewitched, after all. 

*~*~*~*

The snow had started and stopped again, and the sun rose from its bed. Father Leuan found Gwilym at his desk, going over the ledger before morning Mass. 

"What is 'une ancre,' Leuan?" Gwilym said the French word carefully.

The priest settled himself in his usual place, his bones protesting the cold and the early hour. Leuan had rooms at the local monastery but spent most nights in Aber Castle as if he feared letting Gwilym from his sight for too long.

"Angor? An anchor. What keeps a ship from drifting, you land-loving fool." Gwilym had only needed the word translated, but the priest elaborated. "You locate where you want to be and drop anchor. That is where you will stay." 

“Ah.”

Leuan pulled his chair closer to the desk, hoping for some wedding night gossip. He knew Lady Duana was not in the kitchens or the great hall. The door to her room was open and her bed empty. That left one possibility.

"How did you find the little bride? Between old friends, tell me. Remember, I live piously and vicariously now, and I absolved you of Muretta without batting an eye."

"Muretta has her own hearth and husband now, which is all she ever wanted, yet more than I could give her." Gwilym never looked up from the accounts and correspondence. "Sometimes words of caution from you beforehand would be more beneficial than words of absolution afterward."

The priest sighed. No matter. Merfyn's observations of any woman could heat a man's blood. Hopefully the sergeant would have the sense to observe the new wife outside of her husband's hearing from now on, though.

"What is this, Gwilym?" Father Leuan noticed a piece of parchment set aside on the desk. "Why are you wasting parchment scribbling? This must be the one Irish phrase you know. Would you be trying to impress someone still asleep in your bed this morning?"

Gwilym glanced up. "Can you read it, Leuan?"

"Of course. ‘Ciunas gan vaigneas.’ Your writing is getting dreadful, but it says 'quietness without loneliness'."

"So it does." After a moment, as if an afterthought, Gwilym said, "We need a second chair on the dais, beside mine. A small one, so her feet reach the floor."

"Lady Duana is staying in Aber?"

"Of course she is staying in Aber." Gwilym spoke as if the priest was dim. "She is my wife. She cannot sit on the floor. See about a chair. A small chair." He held his hand even with his chin, and added as if Leuan might not know, "She is small."

The priest leaned forward, resting his elbows on the battered desk and his chin on his hands. He tried one last time. "Tell me this: does she make you smile, Llwynog?"

"It seems she does, Leuan." Gwilym answered calmly, and went back to the accounts of the mountain kingdom of Northern Wales.

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth, part I

Hiraeth II: Cariad

*~*~*~*

For a warlord prince, nothing was physically imposing about Llewelyn. Though Llewelyn’s collection of scars rivaled Gwilym's and the ladies thought him handsome enough, the Prince of Wales had the same light chestnut hair and average build as a thousand other Celtic men. Gwilym, however, like Gwilym’s father and grandfather, had always been tall. Viking blood, people said: the long limbs, the hot temper. Gwilym’s great grandmother had been a Viking raider’s wife. A shield maiden: a female warrior. His great grandfather killed the Viking, and he took the Northman’s woman as well as his sword. Gwilym favored his dark-haired father over his blonde grandfather but stood a full man's hand taller than Llewelyn by the time he and Llewelyn reached twelve. That meant Gwilym could run faster, reach farther than Llewel, much to Llewelyn's frustration when they were squires. Once, Gwilym managed to best Llewelyn at sparing, take his practice sword, and hold it high overhead, taunting Llewelyn to jump for it while the other noblemen's sons laughed.

Llewelyn, all five stones of him at the time, punched Gwilym hard in the gut, grabbed his own and Gwilym's wooden sword, and ran for home as fast as he could while Gwilym struggled to breathe.

Two and a half decades later, for the Prince of Wales, that remained the extent of his strategy. Llewelyn took what he wanted however he could get it, and left the details and aftermath for others to deal with. He was unflinching, and so direct and tactless he once observed Dafydd of Aber looked far more like him than like Gwilym of Aber. 

That had been while both Tangwystl and Diana were pregnant, but Llewelyn and Gwilym were far from Wales, preoccupied with occupying a castle in Dublin for King John. They got drunk and bored one night, as did much of the Welsh army. The result of Llewelyn's idle comment had been Prince Llewelyn and Gwilym living in separate military camps and communicating via messengers for months even while they fought a war together. 

The bad blood ended bloody by year's end – for both of them.

One warm day in late autumn, Gwilym had taken Dafydd for a ride. They wandered over to Conwy, about five miles from the village of Dolwyddelan. To his surprise, Gwilym saw Llewelyn approaching with a boy Dafydd's age in front of him in the saddle. Behind Llewelyn came a slowly-moving group of knights and wagons and peasant women holding babies. Gruffydd's pony was tied to a baggage cart, and his nursemaid rode next to the driver. Her eyes and nose looked red. It was Llewelyn's family with Tang. Llewelyn had moved them out of Dolwyddelan Castle and to the next village after he married Joanna, but now he was moving them back.

Llewelyn greeted him evenly. "My condolences on your father's death. Diana's death. The messenger came last week."

"Your condolences are welcome." Gwilym answered honestly. He stopped Goliath. "I thought you would come. Visit. Since you have also returned to Wales."

"There were things which kept me at home. Ride with me, Gwil." As if it was the next logical observation, Llewelyn said, "You have a new horse."

Gwilym looked at the baggage carts and nursemaids as he turned Goliath. Two of the infants looked newborn while pretty Tangwystyl was absent.

"Twins." Llewelyn answered the unspoken question. "Another girl, and a little brother for Guto." He put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Little Gruffydd had the same empty, lost look Dafydd had that winter, but Llewelyn's expression had not wavered.

"She is dead, Gwil," Llewelyn added after few seconds. Gwilym knew it was not Dianna he spoke of. "A fever took her. I have buried her. I am taking the children home."

"I am sorry."

Llewelyn nodded curtly, his eyes straight ahead. "You are the Lord of Gwynedd now. You are overdue to swear fealty to me and to King John."

Gwilym had not felt like the Lord of Anything that year. He felt like merely drawing breath took effort. "There were things which kept me at home. Diana had a little girl. I have a daughter."

There was a second nod of neither sympathy nor congratulations, but of acknowledgment. "You will pass tonight at Dolwyddelan castle. You and your son. Swear your oath of fealty. Then, we will drink."

"To Tangwystyl and Diana and my father." Get drunk: a good plan. The best plan Llewelyn devised all year. Gwilym put his hand on Dafydd's light brown curls and leaned down to kiss the boy's head. "To our children and their beautiful mothers."

He wondered what Llewelyn would tell his young Norman wife, though. Joanna had three small daughters by Llewelyn, a stillborn son in early spring, and gossip said she was pregnant again. She would not welcome Prince Llewelyn presenting her with five baseborn children to raise. Particularly not two sons to compete with any sons she bore for their father's kingdom. Llewelyn did not seem to anticipate that. It was unlikely but possible Joanna did not know Llewelyn's hearth wife and their children existed. Gwilym claimed no expertise on women's minds but this seemed a bad idea. If nothing else, Llewelyn's father-in-law was the King of England. 

"What will you say to your wife, Llewel?" Gwilym asked, since strategy was his domain.

Llewelyn turned his head, looking at him scornfully. "My hearth wife is dead. A fever took her. I told you, Gwil. Tangwystl is dead."

"You did," he amended. "For that, I am sorry. For you and for your children."

He watched Llewelyn worriedly out of the corner of his eye. He had wondered, for the first time, if men had levels of love for a woman, as the Church had levels of Hell. Where love was greatest, he wondered if the pain of losing love was most severe. He thought he loved Diana. Gwilym bled: mostly for his father's steadying hand, but also for his children's mother and for his own empty bed in the last month. Llewelyn, though- Llewelyn cut out his heart and buried it with Tangwystyl for safekeeping. The rest of his body spoke and rode and fought battles and ruled Wales out of habit.

Gwilym could not stand to love a woman as much as the Prince had loved Tang. Gwilym decided a decade ago, when Dafydd was four and Gruffydd was five and he and Llewelyn were six and twenty. He could bear any battle wound, as could Llewelyn, but losing a woman he truly loved? If Llewelyn could not bear it sanely, neither could Gwilym.

"We are long overdue in Dover," Llewelyn reminded him after a silent mile or so. "The King is displeased. He wants that castle."

"My men are there," Gwilym said. "It is nearly winter."

"No matter," was Llewelyn's reply. "Is your father buried?"

"He is."

"We will leave once the children are settled in. By the end of the week."

Gwilym had not argued, since it would have done him no good. But he had wondered, when love and duty do not intersect, once love is gone, if duty could keep a man alive.

True to his nature, Prince Llewelyn rode forward, directly toward to Dolwyddelan Castle. Not knowing what else to do, Gwilym put his arm around Dafydd, held the little boy close, and rode to battle beside Llewelyn.

*~*~*~*

A few weeks after Duana arrived from London, the captain of Llewelyn's knights appeared at the outer gate of Aber Castle. Llewelyn could not attend the wedding, but that message arrived a week earlier and by Llewelyn’s usual messenger. This time, the Prince sent, after Gwilym and Merfyn, the most trusted knight in Llewelyn's army. Gwilym assumed Llewelyn plotted war yet again, or there was an issue with the King or even with Duana, and the details needed to remain secret. None of those things was welcome as a wedding gift, but Gwilym could not deal with any of them until he knew the problem. 

Gwilym extended his hand for the parchment but the Captain had no letter bearing Llewelyn's seal. Only a spoken message he would relay to Gwilym alone.

Gwilym dismissed Merfyn and the other knights, leaned back against his desk, and waited. He folded his arms cautiously.

"Does she please you?" the Captain said evenly, after the door closed.

Gwilym tilted his head. "That is your message? Llewelyn had you ride through a snowstorm to ask 'does she please you?'"

The man nodded curtly.

Gwilym heard voices and footsteps in the hallway outside his office. The castle buzzed with activity. More wedding guests had arrived just before Llewelyn’s knight. Gwilym heard the vassal’s servants carrying in baggage and Duana checking the Welsh lord and his wife had settled in.

"If Llewelyn wants to know if having a new wife pleases me, he should have asked a month ago, before he married her to me by proxy," Gwilym said irritably, "or, more than twenty-four hours before I am to be truly married.”

The captain of Llewelyn's guards stood with his eyes focused straight ahead. Usually, if Prince Llewelyn sent this knight with a message, it involved siege equipment or a severed head, not a new bride.

"You are to wait for a response?"

"I am, my lord."

A rip on the sleeve of Gwilym’s shirt had been repaired with stitches so dainty Gwilym could barely see them. The wine in the pitcher on his desk was fresh, his boots were polished, and the papers on his desk sorted neatly. No cobwebs decorated the ceiling beams, and the hearth was clean of ashes and wood chips. Duana may not have done each of those things herself but she had seen they got done. 

He smelled venison roasting and fresh bread and apples baking in the kitchens. Gwen was a good cook but meals now included dishes and spices Gwilym recalled from France or the Holy Land. Food got upstairs or to the great hall hot, and the servants spent more time about their work and less on idle gossip. Musicians played at mealtimes. Their guests – which had multiplied like rabbits in the last hours – got greeted and fed and assigned servants and places to sleep; Duana had made a chart. 

In a few minutes, Duana would send a servant to ask Gwilym to supper. Afterward – when he was not hosting the masses - he could sit with Duana, talk with her. He might play music, or teach her Welsh songs or poems, or read to her. They might play chess, though if Gwilym paid more attention to Duana than the game, she could almost best him. As the hour grew late and they were alone, he would kiss her goodnight once, perhaps twice, and stand guard as she slept.

Duana slept in Gwilym’s bed. Chastely, but nightly. Her bed across the hallway went unused since the night she arrived. Gwilym had never sent for her, yet each night he discovered a pretty little form laying claim to his pillows. Duana wore a chemise and had her hair braided. Often, she had a book in bed with her and a little furrow between her brows as she read. She did not seem troubled if he checked on her, or even sat on the edge of the mattress to speak with her, though his bartered bride became very still if Gwilym touched her. He had invited her to his bed the first night and, he supposed, she chose to stay. 

For tonight, wedding guests would occupy Duana’s chamber (and every square foot of floor space in Aber Castle; Duana had made a chart), and Gwilym assumed he would occupy his usual place on the office sofa. One of his vassals assumed otherwise, as did most of the castle, and teased Gwilym’s about being so impatient. The marriage was not yet blessed. Gwilym had corrected no one’s assumptions. 

A wise nobleman – one who waited a fortnight and for the priest’s blessing before consummating his marriage – would have corrected their assumptions.

His beautiful new wife had nightmares. Until recently he still saw bruises on her wrists. Duana spent the morning with her head in a basin and after breakfast, renewed the basin’s acquaintance. Neither supper last night nor breakfast had bothered his stomach.

Gwen had six bulls’ carcasses hanging outside the kitchens, and the kitchen maids busily slaughtering a flock of geese. Cakes baked. Noble guests streamed in like livestock coming home to be fed. Gwilym’s velvet-trimmed surcoat had been cleaned, and Duana’s velvet and silk dress hung ready. Gwilym even had a new shirt, to which Duana had added some nice stitches of red embroidery around the neck. Tomorrow, Gwilym and Duana would go to the church in Aber Village. Father Leuan would repeat the wedding vows in public, sealing the marriage in front of a hundred guests. The banns had been posted in London, and the marriage entered in the Church record. There would be feasts, celebrations, and more people in his castle than Gwilym might be able to bear. If Gwilym made love to Duana tomorrow night or any night, there was no going back.

Years ago, even in his grief over Tangwystl, Llewelyn did the things Gwilym required of him as Prince of Wales: acknowledge Gwilym's claim to Gwynedd, and acknowledge Dafydd as his son and heir. This message was the same. If Gwilym had any objection to Duana, this was his chance to air it.

"What are your orders if I am displeased with her?" Gwilym asked curiously. 

The captain's eyes remained straight ahead. "Is that your response, my lord?"

"That is my question, not my response. If I would say I do not want her, what did the Prince of Wales tell you to do?"

"I am to await your response, my lord," the big man answered without answering.

"You are to take Lady Duana with you," Gwilym guessed. "You are to treat her most carefully, see to her safety, and take her to- To Dolwyddelan Castle." He had started to say the village near Dolwyddelan where Tang had lived, but Princess Joanna no longer lived in Dolwyddelan Castle. Llewelyn had Joanna imprisoned in a nunnery, and more than cause to divorce or execute her. "Are those your orders? If I do not want her, Llewelyn does?"

The captain remained at attention. Gwilym could have tricked the man into telling but there was no need. As well as Llewelyn knew Gwilym after so many years, Gwilym knew Prince Llewelyn.

"Tell your prince she pleases me."

The captain of Llewelyn's knights nodded. He bowed and was dismissed. A few minutes later, a kitchen maid arrived to ask Gwilym to supper.

*~*~*~*

The last of the wedding guests took their leave several days belatedly due to the snowstorm. Merfyn and his knights had escorted the vassal to the boundary of Aber, and returned to a castle quiet for the first time in a week. The wedding and celebrating was done. Gwen could sit down, and Merfyn’s men could do something besides break up fights between drunken noblemen. Life could return to normal - though normal, according to a manservant, had included a bed pillow on the office sofa this morning, with the marriage not three days old. 

A sad state of affairs, in Merfyn’s view.

With a groan, Merfyn settled his old bones into the chair in Gwilym’s office and let his short legs sprawl apart. 'Airing' himself, as he called it. Gwen had threatened to call that pose 'target practice' for her shoe if he assumed it at a meal again, so the little man restricted the undignified posture, and the scratching which accompanied it, to exclusively male company. 

"Where is the Lady Dana?" He filled his cup to the brim with wine. “Taking a long look at the floor, as you will show her the ceiling later?”

“Do not be impertinent,” Gwilym cautioned, and continued staring at a piece of parchment. The parchment bore Prince Llewelyn’s seal, and whatever the letter’s content, Gwilym looked displeased. 

Merfyn’s jest had not achieved the desired effect, but the sergeant was like a boy with a stick and a bee's nest - relentless until stung. He tried again. “Has the Lady Dana tired of you already?”

"I have tired of your vulgar tongue. Duana is still at church." Gwilym responded without looking up from whatever he found so fascinating. "Leuan is with her. They will be back soon."

“She is a bride, Llwynog,” Merfyn reminded Gwilym. “A lovely bride, unless my eyes fail me, and one I went to great discomfort to bring you. Do you dislike her, or not recall what to do with a woman?”

“I recall my dagger’s location,” Gwilym said evenly, “and which of us has the faster reflexes and longer reach.”

Merfyn closed his mouth.

Father Leuan appeared in the doorway. He rubbed the ice out of his beard and stomped his frozen feet to announce his misery at being forced to ride through the snow in the name of God. 

Passing a second goblet of wine across the desk to the priest, Gwilym told Merfyn, "Prince Llewelyn orders us south to the Tywi Valley to lay siege to Carmarthen Castle. We are to leave as soon as possible.”

“In winter?” Father Leuan asked skeptically, sitting down.

“And three days after my wedding,” Gwilym reminded him. “Our Prince is not known for patience or tact. Llewelyn writes Carmarthen Castle is his according to the Magna Carta, and he orders me to take it by spring.”

“Why does Prince Llewelyn want the castle by spring?”

Gwilym glanced at the letter again. “He does not say, and likely, does not know. He wants it and believes I can get it for him; that is usually the extent of his plan. I hope Llewel troubled himself to leave his comfortable chair by the fire long enough to dictate this order, the arrogant bastard.”

Gwilym read passages of the letter aloud, but only Father Leuan listened. Merfyn knew Prince Llewelyn’s messenger had not come from Dolwyddelan Castle, but from a nunnery to the east of it. One rumored to harbor the disgraced Princess of Wales. That was an interesting bit of information, but the rest of the order was pointless to Merfyn. He had spent his life following either Gwilym or Gwilym's father into battle. Gwilym was Merfyn's liege lord; Prince Llewelyn was Lord Gwilym's, and King John Lackland commanded them all, so service was always mandatory to someone. 

"The snow is stopping. If my wedding guests can get home, we can get soldiers and horses through the passes. Merfyn, have your knights and supplies ready, and send a message to the army camp. We can leave tomorrow and be home for Easter." Gwilym tossed the letter aside. He leaned back in his chair and rotated his neck so it snapped and cracked like dry twigs. "I am getting too old for this. The castle should fall, but I despise sitting in a tent in the middle of winter waiting to starve out some pampered Norman."

"Why the haste?” Merfyn took a sip of wine. “You are likely to have more company in your tent during a siege than you seem to have in your own rooms, in your own castle."

Gwilym ignored Merfyn's jab. "I fear if we are away too long, my old sergeant's young wife may decide she prefers a husband who at least reaches her chin."

"Fear not," Merfyn responded sarcastically. "Plenty of me reaches my young wife, more nights than not."

Gwilym chuckled, and Father Leuan looked disapprovingly at Merfyn.

Merfyn raised his goblet and offered heartily, "To war."

Gwilym left the letter and carried his goblet as he joined the other two men near the fire. "To war." He held the goblet high. "Or at least, to dressing for war and sitting outside a castle to wait for one."

"To restraint," the priest suggested.

"Never," the old sergeant countered. "To young wives who warm cold winter nights. May our Lord Gwilym eventually discover their charms."

Gwilym sank onto the sofa beside Leuan and responded, "To old men with wagging tongues. May their swords be as sharp and nimble."

Merfyn, of course, assured everyone his sword remained nimble. 

Merfyn had several more toasts and boasts, each progressively bawdier and sillier. Gwilym had everyone's goblet refilled one last time and sent the servant back to the kitchens for the night.

The fire crackled and the wine warmed his blood. Gwilym stretched out his legs toward the hearth and watched the flames while Merfyn turned his barbed comments toward Leuan. 

Leuan had discovered a striking Norse widow at mass yesterday and was spinning dreams of what a future with her might hold if he was not a priest. Suzanne, she said her name was. Manx and, like Leuan, from the Isle of Man. Gwilym had his pretty bride, and Leuan liked wrapping his mouth around the word. Suzanne. Merfyn caught him watching the blonde woman, much to Leuan's dismay. If Merfyn knew, the entire village knew - including any details Merfyn might add to the tale on a whim.

Leuan defended himself as best as he could for a while, until both men noticed Gwilym took no part in the conversation. They stopped speaking and looked at Gwilym, who continued to scrutinize the fire thoughtfully.

After a moment of silence, Gwilym noticed the lull. He started to speak, didn't, and then asked in a carefully casual tone, "Is my wife well, Leuan?" 

Leuan shrugged. "I braved the elements to hear her confession but thus far she has had nothing interesting to confess. She only prays."

“How boring for you,” Merfyn quipped. Gesturing with his cup to Gwilym, he added, “And for you, my lord. Are you the butcher’s dog? I taught you better, if you recall, my-”

Merfyn scrambled to his feet alongside Father Leuan as Duana entered. The cases of Norman chivalry in Lady Duana’s presence, among the men of Aber Castle, had reached plague proportions. 

"Nos da," Merfyn greeted her, losing all bluster and finding the floor captivating. 

"Nos da, Sir Melvin," she replied politely. 

“Is your mare well, my lady?” Merfyn asked in formal Welsh, though Merfyn was in charge of the castle’s knights and defenses, not the horses. The only contact he had with Duana’s mare was to walk past its stall. “She is a beautiful creature. A fine palfrey,” Merfyn said, using what had to be one of the few French words he knew. “Quite suitable for a noblewoman.”

Gwilym was not sure Duana understood, but she responded, “She is well, thank you.”

“She hails from the Holy Land, if I judge correctly. You will get fine foals from her.” Merfyn looked up. His eyes took in every inch of Duana in one pass.

“I- I,” Duana stuttered. “I had not considered that. She has never been bred.”

“That is a pity.” Merfyn pushed out his chest. “I will go check on her, my lady. See she is well-groomed and fed and properly bedded.”

“I- Thank you,” Duana sat lightly on the sofa. Gwilym offered his cup, but she shook her head. 

After Merfyn left, Father Leuan, King of Adventure, excused himself to go to bed. 

Duana leaned forward and told Gwilym in French, “I am not sure I want Sir Melvin near my mare.”

Father Leuan closed the office door as he left.

“Do not worry about Merfyn with your horse,” Gwilym said. “He is one of the best horsemen I have. Worry about Merfyn with your marriageable daughters.”

He earned a little smile from Duana. 

She pulled off her veil and her wet shoes, and unpinned her hair so a long braid fell down her back. As she curled up on the office sofa, she asked, “There is nothing Sir Melvin thinks he cannot ride?”

At first, Gwilym thought he misunderstood. Once he realized he had not, and she made a coarse joke, he chuckled. “Nothing he will not try to ride, at least, if he is drunk enough.” He inhaled. “Are you well?”

Duana responded as she always did – “Je suis bien” – she was fine.

Gwilym looked at her a long minute until she looked away. She was a woman often watched, whether she oversaw the kitchens or undressed for bed, but he suspected she disliked it. Duana was his new wife and he watched her regardless: the line of her neck, the swell of her breasts under her dress, the narrowness of her waist. He watched her the way a man gazed at a fine horse or the statues in Rome. Because it was so perfect in its grace it begged appreciation. 

He opened his mouth several times. Like Merfyn, he searched for something to say to her and eventually settled upon, “Have the last of our guests gone?” Gwilym knew the answer. 

“They have. You can come out from your office and wherever else you have been hiding for the past week. It is polite to at least speak to guests, my lord.”

“I spoke to them.” Gwilym kept up his end of this inane conversation. “I bid them farewell while you were at church. I even waved.” 

Duana tilted her head and told him sarcastically, “Such a help.”

He mimicked her tone. “Such a subservient, docile wife the Norman King has given me.” 

“Were you promised a docile Norman noblewoman?” Duana rearranged her long skirt as if she had misplaced something on the sofa beneath it. “Perhaps she is here somewhere. I will look.”

Gwilym kept resolving to curb Duana’s sharp tongue. That resolution had yet to take any form aside from his barbed banter and empty cautions. Perhaps Duana expected to be corrected. It was the Norman custom but Gwilym had seen too many Norman noblemen slap their wives over allowing a barrel of beer to empty or similar nonsense. Those wives cowered and cried and hated their husbands. Practically, Gwilym doubted a cowed, bruised wife made for good company at supper or sport in bed. Once, in Constantinople, he noted his host’s young wife carried a bruise on her face at supper. Later that night, as her drunken husband snored in the next room, that young noblewoman repaid her husband by inviting Gwilym to her chamber to personally further relations with the Latin Empire. In hindsight, Gwilym doubted he was the first or last Crusader to enjoy such an invitation. Also, he realized bedding his host’s wife had been unwise and impolite, and adultery a grave sin. Also, Gwilym did not care to be the older husband snoring in the next room.

Duana was not impertinent to Gwilym in public and besides, Duana cowered plenty in private. Once again, Gwilym chuckled and Duana’s sarcasm went unchecked.

He refilled his goblet with wine and passed it to her. Duana took a sip.

He glanced at the notched candle burning on his desk. Father Leuan was correct; bedtime approached. Gwilym saw Duana check the candle as well. She raised the goblet again and took a longer sip.

Last night, after they bid their lingering guests goodnight, he and Duana had sat and talked of things past the known world. The legends of her homeland and the shadow during an eclipse and the standing circles of stones throughout Wales and in the south. Duana had never seen those circles, and Gwilym had promised to take her once the weather warmed. There was an ancient stone circle and a mysterious tomb not five miles into the forest outside Aber. 

Now that promise would have to hold until Gwilym returned in the spring, thanks to Llewelyn’s foolish siege. Other things, if they did not occur tonight, would have to wait months as well. 

Last night, Gwilym had kissed Duana playfully. Wine had dulled both their nerves, and he had kissed her again less playfully, more passionately. They were married. Snow fell outside but the warm fire crackled and the candles burned low. Gwilym had untied her chemise. Stroked her face. Traced the outline of her ear and the slope of her breast. He kissed the ridgeline of her shoulder and felt her hand on his shirtfront and her breath warm against his neck. She lay back, inviting. He knocked over the empty wine bottle as he moved forward, and did not care. The fire burned hotter. His heart beat faster. For a time she kissed him in return, but then pushed him away - not coyly, but blindly and frantically. For a few terrified seconds, as she struggled to get away, she did not seem to see or know Gwilym. With her shoulder and part of her breast exposed, Duana had pulled her knees to her chest, sat on the fur rug in front of the hearth, and cried. 

To Gwilym, his new bride had seemed to cry for hours. If a woman cried, he wanted to buy her something or kill something so she would stop. He offered water, wine, comfort, forgiveness, but she continued to hide her face and sob. If he touched her she flinched, so he sat watching his pretty wife as his stomach turned.

Once Merfyn was at court, Merfyn would have died to protect her. Prince Llewelyn tended to bed any pretty woman who crossed his path but he would not force one. No lover would hurt her, nor would her first husband, whom she seemed to adore. Gwilym long suspected the King claimed the right of primae noctis - to spend the first night with the bride after the proxy marriage - and she objected. Rumor was, in addition to pubescent girls, the English King preferred unwilling women. The more unwilling, the better. Most women would have submitted to a king, but King John must have found good sport with Duana.

Gwilym tried to push those thoughts from his mind but the cold rage continued to smolder. He returned his attention to the present since he could do nothing about the past. "Cold?" he asked. "Froid?"

Duana nodded. He offered his hands to rub her frozen feet. Again, she silently agreed. He moved to the sofa and stripped off her wet stockings as he would a child's. Earlier, he considered forbidding her riding to the church with the snow still flying. Leuan usually said Mass in the castle chapel - one of the privileges of having a priest often in residence - but Duana wanted to go to the village church. Gwilym could deal with the few vassals taking their leave, so it had not seemed worth the trouble to deny her. She might look like an angel but, in addition to her sharp tongue, he discovered she was as headstrong as a mule if she set her mind to something.

"What is the butcher's dog, Lord William?" She sipped the wine and watched his hands as he massaged her feet. "Why does Sir Melvin call you that?"

She must have overheard, and her Welsh indeed improved quickly. "It is an old joke. In truth, Merfyn is terrified of his new wife's temper, and his mouth moves without consulting his head more often than not." 

"What does the joke mean, though?"

Gwilym pushed her feet down and pivoted her around on the sofa. He pulled her onto his lap. "My Cariad, my sweet, pretty girl - you ask too many questions. Kiss me and I may forgive you."

"Tell me what a butcher's dog is and I may kiss you twice," she responded flippantly. 

"I do not accept your terms, woman." He dared her, "Kiss me once as down payment, first."

She blushed and her bravado evaporated. "William, I cannot."

"You can." He spoke with his face close to hers. "If you want to know, kiss me first. Drink.” Duana brought the goblet to her mouth, tipping her head back as she drank. “Now kiss me, and I will kiss you in turn, and perhaps there will be no more talk of the butcher's dog."

She seemed unsure of herself as the aggressor but set the empty goblet aside and pressed her mouth to his. He pulled her closer. Her tart lips parted to let him deepen the embrace. Gwilym put his hands on her face, cupping her cool cheeks, and felt them start to warm. His pulse quickened as they kissed. After a moment, he lowered her to the sofa with her body beneath his.

Careful, he kept reminding himself, as his hands roamed over her hips and explored her high breasts. Slowly. Do not be too eager. As Gwilym started to push up her skirt, she pulled her face back from his. "Relax, Cariad. You are my wife, and I am not a boy." 

Making his way from her mouth to her neck, he noticed she had become still. He looked to see her wide eyes watching him in the firelight.

"Yes," she whispered in French, nodding. "Do not stop."

She took a deep breath. Duana closed her eyes and seemed to steel herself the way Gwilym did when a battlefield wound must be stitched closed: there was no choice except immediate pain or slow death, and he must be strong and brave.

"Relax," he told her again. Gwilym returned his hand to her waist and his lips to hers. He made sure not to confine her. Her skin was soft and smooth, her lips yielding, and her body warm beneath his. 

Again, she became too still. 

"Cariad, I will not hurt you. I swear it." 

She nodded and took another breath as if waiting for the second stitch of a wound. The first stitch had been painful, but there were only seven or eight to go and it would be done.

He kissed her forehead, exhaled, and moved back. He had gotten this response on their wedding night, after the drunken, boisterous crowd put them to bed. Last night, it had been the same. Gwilym was no stranger to skittish women, and even a few virgins, but regardless of what he did, Duana had stiffened and startled. No amount of promising or gentleness made any difference. She did not resist – only became increasingly frightened and, he judged, embarrassed – until Gwilym admitted defeat. Baring force, his marriage would remain unconsummated. Two nights ago, as the wedding feast continued downstairs and Duana likely assumed Gwilym asleep, he had heard her sobbing. She cried if he touched her and she cried if he did not. He saw no pleasant resolution to this unpleasant impasse. 

"Do not stop. I can do this," Duana insisted, sitting up as well.

Gwilym shook his head. He did not expect her to respond with the feigned enthusiasm of a prostitute; she was a lady. Fearful obedience was not welcoming, though. He had never enjoyed frightened or unwilling girls.

"I can," she repeated.

He shook his head again.

Now her flushed face looked ashamed. A tear spilled down her cheek. “Everyone knows,” she informed him. “Your vassals, your servants, your knights. They make jokes about us being eager newlyweds, but they know. They laugh at you, and it is because of me.”

“My bed is not their concern.” 

“It is their concern,” she said, which was true. “If a lord’s wife is cold in bed or if she is barren, that is his people’s concern. You have a duty, as do I.”

“Piss on them and my duty to them.” He told her honestly, “I doubt my maids expected to find blood on the bedsheets and regardless, most assume the wedding night, for us, passed weeks ago. The rumor today is I do not sleep with you because you are already with child.”

Another tear joined the first’s path down her cheek. Gwilym pulled her against his chest, petting her. After a few seconds, Duana put her arms around his neck and seemed to relax, which did not help matters. Having her draped across him, breasts pressed against his chest, hair coming unbraided and curling around her face, did not decrease his sense of urgency. She looked wild and wanton and, though his mind knew differently, much of his body was convinced she was.

He wanted to push her down on the sofa - on the rug in front of the hearth, even - push her skirt up and be inside her, to open her dress and feel her bare breasts against his chest. The little liar who lived in a dark place inside his mind said she was right; he should not stop. She was merely nervous as all brides were, he supposed. He should have her for the first time and be done with it, and the second time she would be less frightened. This time he wanted her and it was his pleasure; the next time, she would magically want him in return.

That little liar sounded convincing.

Duana put her hand on his cheek and kissed him again, softly, carefully. She exhaled and her mouth opened. 

He could take her to bed and in ten minutes, he would be satisfied, with his senses heightened, his body humming, and his mind dulled with pleasure. In twelve minutes though, he would be sorry. Gwilym had listened to that little liar before.

He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it, and looked at the contrast between her delicate fingers and his large, tanned ones. He could have pinned her down as easily as he could win a wrestling match with Dafydd. 

Gwilym swallowed, but Duana moved to kiss him again. “Do you want me?” her warm breath asked near his ear.

The impatient bulge in his breeches seemed answer enough. 

Duana shifted on his lap and peeled the bodice of her dress off over her head. She still wore her long skirt, and wetness still darkened the hem. As he watched, she untied the ribbon at the neck of her chemise and opened the front of it, baring her breasts. Her hands trembled. 

“Will you have me, or will you ever be the butcher’s dog?” she asked. Her pretty little breasts rose and fell rapidly. “A creature expected to lay right beside the meat but never touch it. Always wanting, hungry. Petted and praised, but never getting what it truly wants.”

Gwilym ran his fingers over her breast, and cupped and pressed the weight upward with his palm. He felt her quaking. “I will not force you,” he said hoarsely. 

“I want to please you,” she insisted, and he believed her. “I am offering. I consent. If you want me, take me. I am not a girl. I am not a virgin. Do not mind my silliness. Do it. Please.”

She still sat on his lap. Her face flushed down to her breasts, and her cheeks glistened with tear tracks.

His insistent erection felt uncomfortable. Until his recent marriage, Gwilym was unaccustomed to being aroused but unsatisfied. The world was full of pretty, willing, even passionate women for a nobleman to dally with. There was no one now, though. Not since last summer, when his mistress wanted to marry a man who was not him.

Gwilym ran his thumb over her nipple and, with his other hand, stroked her hair. She watched him with teary blue eyes. “You cannot cry or struggle,” he said softly. Duana sniffed and wiped her wet face with her hand. “Nor will I hold you down.”

“You will not have to. I swear it.”

A sickening wave passed through his belly. Again, he believed her. This pretty little mule-headed creature would lie perfectly still as he forced his prick inside her, in order to do her duty and keep Merfyn’s idle tongue from wagging.

Gwilym had her shift so she straddled his lap, facing him, and so she felt his erection against her. He kissed her cheek and whispered, “Go to my bed. If you want me, undress and go to my bed. Lie back and open your legs. Wait for me. Can you do that?” 

He was not sure how much of his Welsh and bad French she understood, but her head nodded.

“Go, and I will come to you,” he promised. “I will not hurt you. Do not cry and do not struggle.”

Duana’s hair tickled his throat as her head nodded again. He heard a strangled sob.

“You are not moving, Cariad.” Gwilym observed in the same soft voice. 

“I will,” she assured him hoarsely. “William, I will.”

“I will come to you when you do.” He sat back, removed his hands from her body, and sighed. “Stop this, Duana. Stop issuing invitations you cannot fulfil. I do not care to play this game every night of my married life. It is unpleasant for both of us, and I have no taste for a woman who does not want me.”

“I do want you,” she said angrily. 

“You do not, you little liar.” 

“I am no liar,” Duana barked back, and sniffed again.

“Fine,” he said sarcastically. “You want me desperately, only do a poor job of demonstrating it.”

A little crease formed between her brows as she straddled his hips. “You doubt my word, Lord William? If you think I am a silly girl who does not act of my own will, let me demonstrate.” She reached between their bodies and cupped his groin with her palm. Gwilym inhaled. As she rubbed expertly, she asked, “Do you like that, my lord? Have I passed your test? Do you believe I want to please you, or shall I leave no doubt in your mind as to my intent?”

Since he had no idea as to her intent, Gwilym responded with another gasp and a fine Welsh curse.

“You lie back,” his new wife ordered, and slid off his lap. 

Before Gwilym could mentally conjugate enough French verbs to respond, Duana sank to her knees in front of him. She pushed up his tunic, and efficiently untied his breeches and the linen braies underneath. Gwilym opened his mouth to ask what she was doing, but it became marvelously, incredibly obvious.

She took his cock in her mouth. She touched him with her hand, then her tongue: the tip, the shaft, the sensitive area beneath. He watched, forgetting to breathe, as her lips passed down the length of his prick. He felt the roughness of her tongue, the hot wetness of her mouth, the tightness of her lips. 

"Duana?" he managed to say hoarsely. He knew such a sin existed but never experienced it. He had been with peasant girls and tavern or camp whores. Diana. Phoebe. He had been with an Infidel prostitute in the Holy Land, and once with a French courtesan who took a liking to the exotic Welsh general. And once, the noblewoman in Constantinople. None of those women offered this. This was pure lust and against God's will and akin to sodomy. Something men did to men. Gwilym had, by accident, once stumbled behind a Paris tavern and seen one young man doing it to another man.

He bit his lip, moaned, and hoped both she would and would not stop.

She used her hand again, like he would on himself. Her tongue. She sucked gently, and then more insistently. She raised and lowered her head, letting his cock slide across her tongue and in and out of the tight ring she formed with her lips. That felt wholly unlike a woman’s cuny, but wonderful. Warm and tight and slick. Gwilym felt like every good sensation in the world concentrated around his prick. 

Christ on the Cross, this was so wonderful it must be a mortal sin.

Such a smart woman. Such an ingenious way to resolve their dilemma.

He would burn in Hell.

He fucked her mouth. That was a horrid, vulgar way to put it, but he did not know another. Nor was it correct. Gwilym did nothing besides sprawl back on the sofa and gasp and try not to let the back of his head implode. With her mouth, Duana fucked him. As slow or as fast, as roughly or as gently as she pleased.

The door across the room was not bolted. Servants would knock but Merfyn or Gwen or – God forbid - Father Leuan could enter at any moment and catch him allowing this.

"Sweet Jesus!" Her hand pushed against his hip, wanting him to keep still. "This is a sin, and I am damned." At that moment, it seemed well worth the trade.

Duana paused, raising her eyes and swollen lips to look at him. "Do I stop?"

He shook his head emphatically. Christ had been a mortal man, the priests said. If Christ sat in Gwilym’s place, Gwilym was sure He would understand.

Gwilym did not know how this would end, and he did not care - so long as it did not end yet. He let his head fall back on the top of the sofa. His eyes closed. He rested his hand on the back of her head, urging her on. His breath quickened. His heart thudded inside his chest as the tension built. He tried to be quiet, with limited success, most likely. Any nearby servant would have tales to tell tomorrow.

Gwilym shifted his feet and gripped the arm of the sofa. She put her hand on his hip again firmly. He must accept pleasure, not control it. A novel sensation - to not be in control, to have to wait and trust her to please him. 

She did please him. The feel of her mouth and lips and tongue on him was light, languid, drawing out pleasure and letting it build inside him until it neared pain. He gasped. His fingers tightened in her hair, and he moved against her instinctively. Not sure what was expected of him, he let go of her head and started to push her away at the last minute. She did not let him.

Later, if Gwilym had anyone to tell about the experience, he would swear lightning split the Heavens and jolted through his body. Warm waves of ecstasy crested and crashed, over and over, until every fiber of his being was replaced with blissful satisfaction. The tide receded and left a euphoric haze and Gwilym staring wordlessly, wondrously from the sofa. Breathless, his heart pounding, his body spent. His skin flushed and sweaty, and his brain devoid of thought. 

Duana swallowed. She slid the back of her hand across her chin. Looking down, she wiped his semen from between her bare breasts. This sin involved aim.

Perhaps Normans or sodomites had some chivalrous phrase they reserved for such an occasion, but Gwilym continued staring.

She left Gwilym’s breeches open but pulled his tunic down so he was covered. She closed and tied the front of her chemise. Duana bid him "Nos da" and got up from her knees. She picked up the discarded bodice of her dress and, still barefooted, went to their bedchamber to sleep alone.

*~*~*~*

Christianity reached northern Wales when Gwilym’s grandfather was a boy, so Gwilym was raised in the Church. The old ways remained – including, from what he had witnessed, Druid priests - but Gwilym received the sacraments, learned the gospels, and spent years on Crusade with the Templars in the Holy Land. The Church dominated every aspect of his life: marking the passing of the day, decreeing what he could eat when, how feast days were celebrated, how and when he could lay with a woman - often in direct opposition to the traditions of the old ways. By Welsh standards, Gwilym was a good Christian; by London standards, he was probably a heretic.

It was an old debate for him - the conflict between the well-trained mind and the lustful, willful flesh - this time compounded several-fold by the local priest being his friend. Gwilym was the husband and he had allowed it; it was his sin, not Duana's. Confess this... Well, this encounter, have Leuan's jaw drop, do years of penance, and be absolved, or preserve some dignity and expect God to understand. 

Gwilym migrated from one end of the sofa to the other in search of a more comfortable position. He propped up his feet and folded his hands behind his head. He decided first, he would forgo confessing this sin. Second, he questioned the Church's motives for forbidding the act and wished he could figure a way to hear Leuan's justification without giving himself away. How this could be deemed equal to laying with a man or an animal was ludicrous. 

By Gwilym's calculation, a woman could not conceive child, and therein lay the sin. It seemed like a small sin, though. He had not harmed his wife nor had she harmed him. For couples tired of constantly breeding, there could be a mass exodus from what the Pope Innocent III considered acceptable behavior, and therefore fewer parishioners born to fill the pews. Although sons were necessary and nice for boasting, many men quietly frowned in worry as a woman's belly swelled year after year. Too many wives died young and there was a limit, despite what Leuan and the Gospels said, to how many children a man needed. Unfortunately, babies followed the desire for a woman as reliably as prostitutes followed the King's troops.

If Gwilym cut an Infidel's throat in the Holy Land, he did God's will; let his wife pleasure him with her mouth, and his soul would burn in Hell for eternity.

The Pope was certainly as puzzle, sometimes.

How in six and thirty years had he not encountered such a wonderful sin? And how, in the name of God, could he encounter it again?

She remained a puzzle as well, this bartered bride of his. The pleasant haze of sleep had come immediately, but left him hours before dawn. He lay unsure of what to say to Duana in the morning and considered leaving for the siege before she awoke. He could claim the manly art of war caused his absence, not his tendency to stutter out absurdly stupid things in her presence.

He must have made an unfamiliar noise, possibly a sigh of contentment, because the pack of dogs hurried from the bedchamber to investigate. Cold, wet noses sniffed Gwilym suspiciously, decided he posed no threat to their mistress, and abandoned him to his sofa and thoughts.

Gwilym got up and went quietly to the bed chamber. He pulled back the bed curtains and watched Duana. In the candlelight, she looked like a contented child safely asleep in her parents' bed. 

She should not be in Wales. She belonged on the arm of a prince at Court instead of hidden away in a harsh land of endless snow and war. Regardless, as Leuan said, what was done was done. Gwilym and Duana stood in the doorway of the church three days ago, four weeks after the first banns were posted and read in accordance with Norman law. They had repeated Father Leuan’s words so none could question the validity of the marriage. "To have and to hold, for fairer or for fouler, to love and to cherish according to God's holy ordinance, I plight thee my troth." To Gwilym, the ceremony had seemed oddly brief to change so much.

The love for a woman frightening him a decade ago - it frightened him now. However, he suspected he had already waded knee-deep into it. 

A nightmare bothered Duana. She pushed her arms out, attempting to escape some monster and succeeding in sending a pillow to the floor. 

"Hush, hush, Cariad," Gwilym whispered. He set the candle in the alcove of the headboard. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hand. Her fingers interlaced with his. He moved closer and let the curtains fall back. "Only a dream. I am here. You are safe."

Her eyes opened, studied his face, and closed again. She exhaled. 

"I am here. It was a dream, sweet girl."

Her hand left his. "I am not a girl." She sat up, sniffed, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "If you will not say my name, at least do not call me a girl." Gwilym did not get his mouth open before she said, "Oh, William, I am sorry. That was impertinent."

Her long, loose chemise had twisted high around her thighs, baring her legs. He pulled the hem down a few inches. "I see you are not a girl. Go back to sleep, you cranky, ungrateful woman."

She tugged the chemise lower and lay down with a frustrated sigh. 

"I saved you from a nightmare, and you repay me by snapping at me," he commented. "Be thankful you are a cranky, ungrateful, and lovely woman."

She sighed again, but sounded resigned rather than ill-tempered. Duana gestured for him to lay down behind her. Gwilym curled close. He rested his hand in the soft valley of her waist the way a lover would. 

"I said your name earlier tonight," he reminded her.

"Not with your breeches on."

Again, he should correct her impertinence. The thing he corrected was to stipulate a detail. "Partly on."

Gwilym expected her to laugh. Instead he felt her body move as she took a deep breath. Duana shifted back against him and rested her head on his out-stretched left arm. She put her hand over his and asked, “Are you angry with me? Or ashamed? You- You told me not to stop. I wanted to please you.”

“You did please me. You do please me.” She held his left hand; his right hand remained on her waist. The warmth of her skin pressed through the chemise and to his palm. “For a noblewoman to know such a thing, though... My new wife seems to be a riddle I am continually solving.”

"Will you stay with this new wife tonight?"

"Of course," he said quietly. "As you wish."

"Until morning?"

"As you wish. Are you afraid?"

After a pause she answered, “I am.” 

"You do not have to be. Not of me, not of anyone.” He toyed with the fabric at the waist of her chemise. "What is it you dream about?"

"Men." She looked down the length of his arm. "Always men. Alex, this time."

"That was your husband's son?"

"You are my husband, and your son's name is David," she answered without answering.

"This son is dead?" If not, and if it would help her nightmares subside, Gwilym could arrange this Alex's death. 

Duana said softly, "I believe he is dead."

"Why do you still dream of him?" 

Seconds became minutes as she did not answer. Rather than pursue an unpleasant topic and a fruitless interrogation, Gwilym sat up to tug off his boots and tunic. He lay down again. Her head returned to his outstretched arm and his right hand to her waist as if the position was their habit. As if they had passed thousands of long winter nights together. 

He closed his eyes and trailed his fingertips over her hip. Lightly up and down her belly. To her shoulder, down the length of her arm. To her thigh. Never skin against skin; he stroked the fabric but enjoyed the warmth and the curves of her beneath it.

After a while, she said, "You are so good to me."

Gwilym raised his mouth to her ear. “You were good to me, earlier.” As he spoke, he began gathering up the fabric of her long chemise. "And, my lovely new wife, I would like to be a great deal better to you."

"William," she said uncertainly. His hand stopped at the falter in her voice. "You, you- You gain nothing by marrying me. I have no dowry. I cannot imagine I am of any political use; likely, I am the exact opposite. I doubt you want my brothers to build a tomb or my mother to deliver your child. You are not a rich old man wanting a pretty trinket, or a fool wanting to momentarily curry the King’s favor. That leaves one reason a nobleman would marry.”

He stroked the fabric of her chemise. “A son.”

She took another shaky breath. “The other men who spoke to the King about me - they had legitimate sons. You do not.”

“I do not,” he agreed softly. After a few seconds, he admitted to the darkness, “I have lost a beautiful little girl. Perhaps that wound heals cleanly for other men, but the ache for me remains. It does not trouble me if you cannot give me a child because I could not stand to lose another.” 

“Do you truly mean that? You would never want another child?”

He considered a moment. “I do not truly mean that.” He rested a hand in the small of her waist, then ran it over her flat abdomen. "I mean I do not judge myself by the size of my wife's belly. It would ease my mind if I had a legitimate heir, but I am content for Dafydd to inherit as my son. I cared for his mother, and he is a good boy. A man, almost. Is there a reason we are discussing this?"

"William,” she said again, in a voice unsure of its footing, “my husband- he- he was older, so no one questioned he did not go to Court. He passed his days in our home, receiving guests and conducting business. He was injured in Dover. I tried to care for his wounds, but some hurts I cannot heal."

Gwilym did not understand. He waited, and she seemed to work up her courage.

"His legs and back never healed properly, William. He kept it secret, like he did many hurts. Most people did not know he could not walk or even stand alone for long. We were never together, not the way the Church says is proper. He did not want me-" She stopped. "He did not want me atop because that would be my sin. So he taught me what I showed you. He said if he requested and allowed it, it was his sin. That is why we had no children."

Gwilym pushed up on his elbow. "Christ on the cross! Why did you not tell someone? You would never have been married to me if the King knew you had no children because, because-"

"Because my husband could not." Gwilym opened his mouth but Duana said before he could, “Or would not. He had a son. I was no one compared to him, and he was so good to me. He taught me many things and he asked for little. I was young and afraid, and I was content with that for many years. He said, when I first came, if I was with child, he would claim the baby. But I was not. Later, I wanted a child so much. Last spring, he even spoke of... He spoke of me going to another man, but I would not."

Such things were not unheard of. Gwilym knew the father of Diana's child yet acknowledged the boy as his own. In time, a daughter with his dark hair and eyes followed. Now all were gone: Diana to fire, Dafydd to the King's Court as a royal hostage, and his little girl to God's grace.

He swallowed hard and pushed those awful images from his mind. He pressed his hips against her bottom and brought his hand up to her breast, caressing. "Do you still want to have a child, Duana?"

"I think I am already to have a child."

"You are my wife. By law, any child you bear is my child unless you or I say otherwise." 

She hesitated, and he thought he misspoke or misunderstood again. 

"Are you certain?"

"Not yet. But William-"

"You are my wife," he repeated, still touching her. "Pass tonight with me, and who will ever know the difference?"

She rolled to face him. "I do want to have a child with you."

"And I with you," he said softly. He outlined her hip with his hand and, beneath her chemise, slid his fingertips up the smooth skin of her backside. “I must leave in the morning and be gone many months. If you want this, you have me only for tonight.”

Her hand traced his cheek. His shoulder. His hip. “The vulgar noblewomen at Court would say God has blessed you,” she said awkwardly. 

“I will not hurt you.” He put his hand on her cheek. "I am your husband. I did not take those vows lightly nor, I suspect, did you." He invited her in a whisper in the light from the single candle, "Lie back, close your eyes, and let me love you," and she did.

*~*~*~*

The beds differed. That was how Duana first knew it was not real, but a dream from her old life.

In North Wales, the soft down mattresses were covered in linen sheets, with warm wool blankets and fur coverlets like those of the Celtic and Viking warlords. The bed curtains were heavy wool, thick to keep out the winter cold, and pillows still considered slightly effeminate. In Pembrokeshire in the far south of Wales, Walter's bed was in the French style with silks and embroidered covers and tall pillows. The bed curtains were velvet and the mattress firm, like those of the French kings.

Walter had met the French kings. King Louis and King Phillip. He had told Duana of them. He had served Queen Eleanor, Henry II's legendary wife. Walter had seen the Holy Land and fought with the Templars on Crusade. He counseled King Henry II, and King Richard, and John - though in private he worried about King John. Young Prince Henry, John's eldest son, visited Pembroke Castle to learn statecraft from Walter, but Walter did not let Duana leave her apartment if King John was there. He worried the King would see her.

"It is unwise for your paths to cross, little Countess," Walter had told her late at night, as the two of them lay in his bed. "I do my best, but John is not the king his father and brother were."

In her dream, Duana opened her eyes and the head on the pillow beside hers was not William's. The two men were alike in some ways. Tall, dark-haired men with warm, dark eyes. William was clean-shaven though, and Walter's face bore a brown beard with streaks of gray. The year Duana first met Walter, he was a decade older than William, and the same age Sir Melvin or Father John the last time she saw him alive. She had thought of him as very old but he was not. She had been very young.

"An old man's last folly," he called her from the start. He had buried two wives. He was a self-made man who rose in rank as a knight, then in service to the Crown. His first marriage brought him lands and titles second only to the English kings. He had a son by his second wife who grew to manhood in the time Duana knew him. There was a stepson he, after hours of prayer and a long sleepless night, ordered killed for harming her. Walter doted on Duana, teaching her things and giving her fine clothes and jewelry. "Indulge me," he would say as a messenger brought another ornament for her hair or a velvet, fur-trimmed dress better suited for Queen Isabelle. "For you are an old man's last folly."

He told her once, while he was still weak, how she reminded him of a girl he once knew. A pretty Irish commoner he kept as a mistress. One he had loved dearly. Walter had been a promising young knight, and she was the woman he loved to distraction but could not marry. He was a second son, a man not wealthy in his own right. Walter never told Duana how his mistress died, but Duana knew there were no bastard children between them. Shortly thereafter, Walter contracted to marry Edward's heiress mother, and after her death, the woman who would be Fitz's mother. Kind, obedient, wealthy noblewomen who were dutiful wives. He was a dutiful husband in return, as he was in all things: loyal and chivalrous and intelligent and brave. He loved Duana as well; she had no doubt. But Duana knew he looked at her when he was tired and saw the echo of young Irish girl who, in his youth, he could not afford to possess.

Duana found Walter awake and watching her silently in the dimness inside the bed curtains. Two male servants stood in his bed chamber in case Walter needed them, and two knights stood guard outside the door. Her maids came and went during the night, as did other servants.

"Am I keeping you awake?" she asked worriedly. He sent for her to sleep with him, but she was tense, restless. She yearned for something; she was not sure exactly what. 

"I was already awake." Walter spoke again, but in Irish Gaelic so he could not be understood by anyone except Duana. "It is time for you to visit my lands in Ireland, little Countess. King John demands more money yet listens to my counsel less. His power wanes, but he still over-reaches. His enemies encroach from all sides: the Welsh, the French, the Scots. A reckoning is coming, I think, and I want you far away when it arrives."

"I prefer to stay with my husband," she told him. 

"Your husband prefers that, as well. I fear, though, your husband will not be here much longer."

She flicked the end of his nose lightly with her finger. "So silly, my lord. What would I do in Ireland?"

He rolled to his side, using his arms rather than his legs to move his body. "You could raise a child." 

She smiled sadly and looked down. Young Prince Henry talked about his newborn sister, and Queen Isabelle, Duana's age, had another daughter not a year old. That made five children for Isabelle, including two healthy sons. Several of the women in Pembroke Castle had given birth, and one of the knights brought Walter his first-born son to pledge him that afternoon. Even the cat had a litter of kittens and the hunting hounds had pups. Around her, once again, spring had brought big bellies and babies for everyone except her. 

"I do not like seeing you sad," he told her.

"I am fine." She felt so empty inside sometimes she ached.

"It is wonderful, Duana, to watch a child be born and grow. I have done you a disservice in denying you that joy. I would like to see you have a daughter before I must leave you. I would dower her with my lands in Ireland, and you could raise her there, far from England and the English Crown. FitzWalter would keep you safe after I am gone."

She scooted closer to him, uncertain. He had not asked her to pleasure him in several years. She was not certain he was not teasing her tonight. She put her hand on his abdomen. The muscles were strong, and the dark hair felt coarse against her fingers. "I will do whatever you want."

He laid his hand in the small of her waist. "I have told you that the Bishop of Fern cursed me after I took his manors in Ireland a decade ago. From that day on, no heir would be born to the Pembrokes." He shifted his hand thoughtfully. "I want you to have a child, but now, how you get that child - that will be up to you."

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

"In my time, I have been with noblewomen and peasant girls, with the Infidel's concubines and French courtesans. I have a fine son. I do not question my virility as a man - but it has passed. I do not question your love, either," he assured her. "Do you want to have a child, Duana?" he asked in the darkness, as William had and with as much gentleness in his voice.

Her heart beat hard inside her chest. "What do you want me to do?"

He was a decisive man, so she knew he hesitated in telling her, not in making up his mind. "Fitz adores you. More than he should, I think."

He teased her; she knew it. Telling her to sin and to sin with Fitz; that was not Walter at all. Or he was addled. 

Looking back, neither was the case. He had seen his life coming to an end, one way or another, and regarded the world with more than fifty years of wisdom combined with a sudden clarity. 

"I could not be with your son."

"Could you not? He is a brave man. A knight almost as great as his father," he teased gently. "FitzWalter would never hurt you, Duana, and once I am gone he would protect you and your child with his dying breath."

"I know." Her voice sounded small, even to her. 

Walter remained quiet so long she thought he had fallen asleep.

"What of Prince Llewelyn?"

"The Welshman?" she asked, surprised. Prince Llewelyn visited Pembroke Castle several times, seeking a truce with Walter and the other Marcher lords. There would be a council meeting in Runnymeade in June between King John, the Marcher lords, and the Welsh. The Scottish King would attend, as would the French Dauphin. Walter would draw up some charter, he had told her.

"Llewelyn is ambitious, brave, honorable," Walter said. "He is not the brilliant military mind tormenting the King: that is his friend William of Aber. That man, I think, is far more dangerous than the Prince of Wales. Llewelyn is bright, though. I know him to be gentle with women, and his eyes follow you at supper, Countess. He would never tell a soul if you passed a night or two with him next month. Nor would he attack lands belonging to a child he suspected he fathered. Would you care for Prince Llewelyn?"

"You want me to choose a man to father my child? I choose a man the way I choose a ring or a dress? Whichever one I fancy?"

"What do you think men choose when they marry?" he pointed out practically. "A mother for their children. These are good men, Duana. Men you like and trust. Men who would not hurt you and would try to bring you pleasure, even, which is more than many wives can say of their husbands. If there is another man want, name him. So long as I approve, he is yours."

She had no doubt if she requested the French Dauphin or the King of Scotland father her child, Walter would arrange it. 

She thought for a time, trying to imagine herself going to a man as a woman would. Bathing, leaving her hair down, and knocking on either Fitz or the Welsh Prince's door in her nightclothes. Going to his bed. Or perhaps, Walter would have the man come to her, and she had to sit in her apartment and wait anxiously, like a bride. Walter might want to watch from the shadows to make sure the man did not harm her, the way a nobleman watched as his prize mare was bred. He liked watching her; in years past, he had watched her bathing or dressing, then sent her maids away and called her to him.

She was his property. Walter could order her to be with another man if he wanted. He had not told her, though; he asked her - and not for his own sake. He had no need for another heir; she realized that years ago. Time brought wisdom, and Duana realized the hypocrisy of Walter's excuse about sin. In truth, he had never wanted Duana with child. Perhaps for fear of losing her, or to prevent dividing his kingdom. 

"I cannot." It was a sin, and selfish. She ached for a child - for a man, sometimes - but she could not do that.

"As I said, it is up to you," he answered easily, sounding tired. 

"You are teasing me, Walter." Though she knew he was not. "You would not leave me, nor send me away. Nor send me to another man. You are teasing."

"Perhaps I am. Whatever you want. Sleep, little Countess," he had told her.

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym woke to the soft silence of his castle on a cold winter night. He lay still and savored the peace, trying to make it last. Soon, he must leave this bed. This place. This woman. 

Eventually, Gwilym heard Merfyn and his knights drilling on the cobblestones outside. On the other side of Gwilym's bed, Duana's breathing suggested she slept soundly. Light footsteps came up the stone stairs. Hinges creaked as a door opened and closed. A dog sighed. Gwilym heard metal clink as his squire brought his armor to the office. The scent of baking bread rose from the kitchens. Aber awakened. Outside, Merfyn's voice barked orders and sounded as if he enjoyed himself immensely. 

Tomorrow arrived, and the time came to go to war. 

Gwilym stretched and tried to will himself out of the comfortable bed. He did not try too hard. Barely any light crept through the bed curtains. Above the covers, the air meeting his skin felt unreasonably cold. 

He burrowed under the furs again and pulled Duana back against him. He heard her sigh contentedly. 

His chest felt full as he held her, watching her sleep. She could not know the impact she had on his lonely world. He had dreaded her arrival and hoped at best for a tolerable companion - a woman Leuan described as fair and bright and good. God blessed him with so much more.

Gwilym pushed her auburn hair back from her face and wondered what she had wanted as she rode into the mountains of Gwynedd. She was correct; the other noblemen who offered marriage would have expected little except for her to hang on their arm. Warm their bed on occasion. Yet she chose a Welsh lord she had never met. He still could not imagine why.

She woke as he touched her, and her eyes opened like a contented kitten's. "Good morning, Cariad." He raised his head to kiss her cheek.

She rolled over so they lay face to face. Her hair had been braided the previous night but now a thousand curls escaped and fell over her shoulders. She looked beautifully wanton and tousled, exactly as Gwilym thought a woman should after she shared a man's bed. She had been timid last night but pleasing. Very pleasing.

“It is nice,” he whispered to her, “waking with you in my bed.” He kissed her nose, her chin, and lightly, her lips. “Would you like to bid a general good morning as pleasantly as you bid him goodnight? Continue your study of Welsh and Welshmen? One Welshman, to be exact.”

She smiled at him lazily, blinked a few times, and her smile faded. 

Perplexed, he asked quietly, "What is wrong?" He had been so careful not to hurt or frighten her. Afterward, she stayed close to him, nude and soft and warm, waiting in his arms until sleep came. "What?" 

"I should not have been with you." She blurted it out as if concerned for him, not for herself. "I should not." She sat up.

He sat up as well, startled. "Why? We are married. What is wrong?"

The cold air bit his bare skin. She wrapped a cover around her hurriedly and moved to get up.

"Stop." She reached the other side of the bed, and he ordered, "Stop!"

She sat on the edge of the mattress and pushed open the bed curtains, as far away as she could get without putting a foot on the floor.

"What is wrong?" he asked again. “You are my wife. What do you think we have done wrong?”

She did not answer. 

He tried to think. Duana was pious – except for pleasuring him with her mouth last night – but it was not a feast or fast day, nor yet Lent. They had been in the dark, with him atop, and wanting a child. He judged Duana had not reached orgasm, and Gwilym enjoyed the act no more than the required amount. He and Duana might have managed a rare event: making love yet avoiding sin.

"Come back to bed," he suggested soothingly. He leaned toward her and rested his hand on the coverlet, several feet from where she sat.

She did not come, and she did not speak for ages. Finally, she looked back at him and said worriedly, "William, my time: it has not come."

Still slightly drunk with the night's events, the female euphemism took some seconds to translate in his head. Her flux had not come. She did not suspect she was with child; she was with child. He had thought for a week that might be the case, though.

"I know." He gestured casually for her to come back and lie down. She did not, so he said, "By marriage, you are a Welsh woman and under Welsh law. I told you last night any child you bear is my child unless you or I say otherwise."

"William-" 

He interrupted. "I am not thrilled. But I knew the possibility when we married so soon after your first husband died." He shrugged one shoulder. "I like children, and if you can have this babe, you can have another. Since we seem to have resolved our conjugal impasse, perhaps this time next year, it will truly be my child you carry. That would please me." He looked at her again, trying to understand her panic. If he did not object to Duana’s ill-timed pregnancy, he saw no cause for her to worry. The pieces fit together, creating a sickening realization. "Your first husband is not the father of this child. He could not be." 

Duana told him last night. Gwilym had been... Distracted. 

He took and exhaled a slow breath. "No matter." He lied, but it seemed the polite response. "Last night, you said you choose me as this child's father. We leave it at that."

"Last night, I was not thinking," she said shakily. "I wanted to please you and, in truth, I wanted to be with you. But I was not thinking and I am sorry. You are so kind, so good to me. I cannot..."

As she spoke, a painful, molten ball formed in Gwilym's chest. 

"William, I cannot stay here. I have to leave."

"You cannot stay here?"

She shook her head.

"Where is it you want to go?" he demanded. "Back to some lover at Court? Have you tried Welsh but decided you prefer more refined things?"

She continued looking at him as if she struggled not to cry. Some corner of Gwilym's mind began to comprehend. The painful ball in his chest dropped to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Welsh law did not supersede the King's law. Gwilym had made a huge tactical error in his own bed.

"The King?" He kept his voice even. "If you are with child, this child's father is the King of England?"

She nodded miserably. "He said he would send you a wedding gift. It seems he has. 'A wedding gift for that bastard Welsh general.'"

"The midwives say it takes some pleasure for a woman to conceive." So did Merfyn, who had fathered a small army of sons. "You had bruises... What of Llewel? Prince Llewelyn?"

"I do not know where Prince Llewelyn was. It happened so quickly." She misunderstood Gwilym's question but answered another he did not have the courage to ask. "The King said it was his right. Is that true?"

"It, it is an ancient, barbaric right." He answered as his stomach churned. "So ancient I have never witnessed it invoked. In exchange for granting permission to marry, a lord receives jus primae noctis: the first night with his subject’s bride – though why he would want it, I have no idea. In Wales, a token fine is paid instead, as one might quaintly knock on wood to drive out the ancient Druid spirits.”

"I did not know that,” she said in a shaky, hollow voice.

Gwilym's heart pounded and traitorous thoughts echoed in his brain. The world took on a red tint like blood diluted in bathwater. He tried to speak, but no words came out. 

He threw back the covers and got out of the other side of the bed. Not sure what to say, Gwilym dressed hurriedly. He washed his face and cleaned his teeth. Duana sat on the bed with her knees to her chest and her tangled hair covering her face. The fur coverlet lay heaped around her hips and her bare shoulders convulsed silently.

"No one else could have fathered this child?" He did not care who her lover had been. Anyone except the King.

"There is no one else," she said without looking at him.

The King's bastard: the knowledge settled over Gwilym. His lovely new wife could carry King John's bastard son. That was no small thing, if it was true, if it was discovered. Even if Duana had a daughter, King John would remember and want this woman and her child.

Prince Llewelyn had not known about Duana's husband’s injury either, Gwilym realized. Llewelyn thought Duana could not bear a child. If Llewel had known, Duana would be Princess Duana of Wales. At this moment, Prince Llewelyn would be at Dolwyddelan Castle enjoying pretty Duana and the pursuit of a legitimate son rather than visiting his faithless, fruitless Princess Joanna in a nunnery.

Gwilym stopped in the doorway of the bedchamber. He turned toward her and braced his hands on either side of the door. He fixed his eyes on the floor as he tried to form a plan. 

Each possible solution seemed worse than the last. He could send Duana back to the King. Or to Llewelyn. He could invent a reason to petition for an annulment. He wanted none of those things, however. Gwilym promised Duana could stay in Aber. Even if he had not promised, he did not want Duana annulled. He suspected he had fallen in love with her in spite of himself. Keeping Duana was worth risking the King's wrath.

Gwilym suspected Prince Llewelyn would not see it that way.

Perhaps she was mistaken. Or Duana was anxious. Until Llewelyn exiled Joanna to the nunnery last autumn, Llewelyn's wife perpetually believed she carried a son by Llewelyn and was perpetually mistaken. 

Duana was not Joanna, though. Gwilym suspected Duana told the truth. She wanted a child, but by him, and never by King John.

Gwilym could send her to an abbey to have the child in secret and leave it there. Forget it existed. That seemed so cruel but it was done with unwanted children. It was kinder than letting it die of exposure. Gwilym could say the baby came early and was his. He looked nothing like King John, but Llewelyn was fairer skinned. Gwilym could have a midwife brew mandrake tea and give it to Duana, killing the child before it could be born. Aside from being a mortal sin, that was dangerous; a woman in Aber Village bled to death last year. Gwilym wanted Duana - safe and with him - but he could not fight the King's army. Nor would Llewelyn allow him to. 

"Where are you going, William?" she asked in a small voice. 

He still studied the stone floor. In truth, Gwilym had nowhere pressing to be. Merfyn could prepare for a siege alone, and the knights would not be ready to ride for another hour. Gwilym finished his correspondence and read over the accounts last night. Breakfast might be ready. Or he could go to Mass, he supposed - pray to the God giving King John dominion to force other men's wives.

"There is a siege," he said, as if it mattered. "I may be away several months."

He glanced up. Duana studied the rumpled sheets. 

"I will go." Her voice wavered and her hair fell like an auburn and gold veil over the sides of her face. "I will not be here when you return. Do not trouble yourself with me. I- I will not tell anyone we were together. I am already with child. It makes no difference what we have done. Do not tell anyone, and I will not either."

Gwilym heard footsteps on the stairs. The one morning he wanted time and peace, Heaven forbid his lands and serfs function past six in the morning without his presence to decide who owned a cow or how best to replace a bridge. Llewelyn's damn siege could wait. Everyone could wait. Gwilym did not need Gwen bringing him breakfast or his squire checking his armor or even Father Leuan's counsel. He needed Duana.

Once Gwilym arrived at that realization, an odd clarity settled over him. The pain in his chest and stomach receded, replaced by a pleasant little flutter as all reason left his body.

He slammed the bedchamber door and bolted it. Behind him, he heard Duana startle at the noise. He walked back to the bed with his teeth gritted. Duana still cowered on the mattress, covered in gooseflesh and little else. Her face was red and streaked with tears. 

"Do not tell me what I should do," he ordered.

She pulled her knees closer to her chest. 

"This is my kingdom, and you are my wife," he said as he tied back the bed curtain efficiently.

She nodded miserably she understood. "I am sorry." 

Gwilym sat on the edge of the bed. He tried to take her hand, but she flinched and stiffened. He had to pry her hand off her leg. 

"Duana," he said, and secured her hand. "I said your name with my breeches on, so take note. Duana, listen to me. I know King John. I did not expect you to be with child by him, but you have taken me as I am. I intend to do the same. You are that anchor. I have found where I want to be and I intend to stay. I intend for you to stay."

Her face was still flushed and wet as she looked at him. "William, the King-"

"You are my wife, not the King's. By harvest, you will have a child. Perhaps, it will be born early. That happens in Wales and people pay no mind. If you agree, I will claim the child as mine and dare any man to say otherwise. The King will never know. He never knew with Dafydd."

She stared at him, her mouth open. He looked back at her steadily. He was rash, he knew, but he meant every word. He would die before he lost her. 

"You are insane. You risk everything to get nothing." 

"I think differently."

"William, you cannot do this. You cannot risk the King's wrath over me."

"Piss on the King's wrath," he responded.

"You will think differently when the King's soldiers come."

"Enough of your impertinence. You do not tell me what I can think or do, woman. I told you: I am a very good soldier. I do not like Normans who try to take what is mine. You are mine by the King's own law. My wife, wedded and bedded. Your child is mine by Welsh law. So long as you agree, it is unwise for any man to disagree. Even the King."

He gave her hand a squeeze, and stood. He pulled the fur cover up and around her shoulders. Duana held the edges together as she stared at him numbly. 

"You are free to leave," he said. "I will see you have money and safe passage anywhere you want to go. If you stay, though- If you choose me, believe I can keep you and your child safe."

Gwilym tried to gauge what she thought and felt. In the courtyard outside, he heard horses and soldiers call to each other, and geese honk unhappily. In the next room, footsteps crossed the floor. Metal met wood as a servant set a tray of breakfast on his desk. His squire had returned; Gwilym heard armor clink and firewood thud dully into his office hearth.

"The choice is yours," he told Duana. "Goodbye. If you remain in Aber, I will see you in the spring. By Easter, I hope."

She continued to look at him with her eyes and nose red, and her skin blotchy and prickled with cold. Not knowing what else to say, he turned to leave.

"Thank you," she said in a small, formal voice, from behind him. "I have not had many choices."

He studied the stout oak door. "Who, do you think, will you choose?"

"You are a good man, William of Aber." 

He smirked. "If I advised myself, I would call me a reckless fool." She did not answer, so he said, "A fool off to wage another campaign for a castle meaning nothing to me."

He heard Duana sniff and the bed shift. "Must you leave so soon?"

Gwilym turned back to look at her. Duana sat on the edge of the bed with the fur blanket wrapped around her, covering her breasts and hips. She smoothed her tangled auburn curls back from her face. She wiped the tears from her eyes and, with the back of her hand, wiped her red nose like a child would. 

"I am not eager to go, but I must leave. Prince Llewelyn orders it." Gwilym worried his lower lip with his teeth as he ambled back to the bed. "Father Leuan or Gwen will see to anything you need. In a few weeks, I will send a messenger. You can send a message in return."

She sniffed again, looked up at him with red eyes, and asked, "Must you leave, or can you linger? With me," she added shyly.

He stood beside the bed, momentarily too surprised to move or answer. "With you?" 

Duana smoothed back her hair again. She sniffed and said, sounding embarrassed, "I must look lovely, but- But I, I am grateful to you. I would like to demonstrate my gratitude. As your wife. Of my own volition. If you want. If you can linger, and you do not think me impertinent."

Gwilym thought she was the most lovely, least impertinent thing he had ever seen. He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her. She leaned forward and put her smooth, cool hand on his cheek. She smiled that mysterious smile. He closed his eyes, let the world fall away, and kissed her. 

She seemed like the Greek and Roman statues: beautiful and silk-smooth, but carved of the hardest rock. She looked gossamer light. His fingertips flowed over her as though she was polished stone. Not until some well-born ruffian tried to damage her, to chip away at her, did the fine marble show its true strength. 

Gwilym paused to pull off his boots. He moved forward onto the mattress as she laid back. 

Let Father Leuan and Merfyn and servants pound on the door until their knuckles bled; Gwilym did not care. Llewelyn's siege could wait, as well. Heaven and Hell could wait, for all Gwilym cared. 

He pulled the fur coverlet off Duana and covered her with his body instead. "Pretty Irish girl," he whispered to her, in the intimate dimness. He had been gentle the previous night - a few hours earlier, actually - but a great deal of gentle could leave her as sore as a few minutes of rough. Also, he had barely slept and was no longer nineteen. “I would be a fool to decline such an offer, but this time I cannot promise I will not hurt you.”

She looked at him uncertainly.

"I will be gentle,” he promised, in Welsh. 

“Will you also be patient?”

“Of course.”

"Will you wait while I vomit?" she whispered back in the same comforting voice he had used.

Laughing, Gwilym pushed up on his forearms so she could take a few deep breaths. "You will be the death of me, Cariad."

"I hope not," she said. She put her hand on his cheek and guided his face down to hers again. Gwilym was careful not to crush her as they embraced, so her bare breasts brushed against his shirtfront. She shifted her legs so he pressed against her, through his breeches. He smelled her sex and the scent from him still inside her. Perhaps he was not so old and tired after all. As he reached down to untie his breeches, her warm breath whispered in his ear, "I choose you."

Gwilym was not nearly so old or tired or done with love as he had thought.

*~*~*~*

Duana read and heard of many things she had never seen: foreign lands, dragons, Heaven and Hell and all that lay between. Supposedly, Wales held wizards and demon-men with horns and tails. She saw evidence of neither. Men whose tempers flared like kindling and fought brother against brother - those were plentiful, but William was not one of them. 

Years ago, Walter let her read "The Description of Wales," by Geraldus Cambrensis. Cambrensis described men who loved their beautiful land and music and poetry. Hospitable men who loved their women. He wrote of a land of war and mists, of Old Magic and dangers natural and unnatural. Walter’s kingdom in the far south was civilized, but only a foolish Norman would venture into the north of Wales. 

They discussed it for hours, she and Walter, sipping brandywine, laughing. They decided the Welsh dragons of the north must breathe ice instead of fire. Her husband would ring for a strong servant to carry him to bed, and leave Duana to her books and dreams. She lived in a gilded cage. A lonely one, but a safe cage, she had thought.

Years ago, Duana had a choice, one of the first in her life, when her brother found her. She could return home and marry whichever Irish farmer would have a woman used by the King's soldiers, or stay with her sweet husband and use his wealth to feed and doctor anyone who appeared at the castle gate. Years later she made another choice: submit to King John or refuse and pay the price. Walter did not want Duana to go with the King's men, so she refused. So the King's soldiers came for Walter. Then for Duana. 

Her choices led her to Wales, and to a feeling that frightened her more than any Norman soldier.

Northern Wales was such a cold place but the cold numbness inside her had started to thaw. Thawing ice was unpredictable, and she felt it melting away, one drop at a time. The ice must have formed years ago and she had not even noticed. 

Duana wrapped herself in her new husband's bedrobe, opened the shutters and bedroom window, and watched him in the snowy bailey below. William supervised Sir Melvin as Melvin put several dozen knights through their paces with bows, swords, long spears, and maces. William must have noticed the window opening. Though Duana stayed in the shadows, she saw him look up. His intense hazel eyes searched the darkness for her. 

He was a good man, this William of Aber, but like an avalanche gathering force. If she did not run, she would be caught up in it and unable to escape.

Duana had seen wars. She witnessed battles in Ireland as a child, those in Dover and Pembrokeshire, and even a brief siege in London. The Welshmen in red tunics were well-armed and well-trained. William had told her more of his soldiers waited in the valley. He had archers, foot soldiers, knights. He commanded the Welsh army, but William's men could not defeat King John's knights and soldiers and hordes of mercenaries. The King's men scurried over the mountains like ticks, fattening themselves on the blood of the land.

If the King learned of this child, the soldiers would come. The King's bastards lived at Court, usually with their mothers. The royal knights would come for Duana and her child and, if her new husband tried to stop them, they would come for William.

Duana would not have another man die because of her.

She thought herself merely sick and worn out from a long journey in winter and being unaccustomed to the food and the cold and the burden of planning a hasty wedding. Wedding guests began to arrive, and her flux had not. William seemed to think the Christian ceremony important – despite avoiding or resenting everything except the actual marriage - but they were already married. She had brought this trouble to his doorstep before she left London.

At first, Duana thought she would wait until she was certain she carried the King's child to tell William she wanted to leave Aber. Leave him. Say she wanted to go to a nunnery. Or Pembrokeshire. Say she wanted to return to a lover or to her homeland. She could choose any reason and destination, since all were lies. Duana would not have told him about the baby. She would not put William or his kingdom in danger. 

One night with her new husband, Duana thought rashly. This man who gave her safety and kindness and companionship, who guarded her and listened to her and shared with her the secrets of his wounded soul – she wanted one night. She was a woman, and he was a man. A man she thought rather handsome, as unconvincing as she was about demonstrating it. 

While she knew William would not hurt her, and sometimes felt her body warm toward his, horrible thoughts and images leapt into her mind. She kept stiffening and panicking. Their wedding night passed with the guests outside the bedchamber door, cheering and calling vulgar taunts as William remained on one side of the bed and Duana the other side. After a third night, William had to think her not only shirking her duty as a wife, but insane.

Last night, her temper at herself got the better of her. William, obviously stunned, enjoyed the benefits. She knew it was a prostitute's trick but, regardless of what William thought of her, at least he - if he ever discovered her pregnancy - could not think the baby his.

Afterward Duana had decided, in the morning, she would tell him she wanted to leave. She lay in bed for hours, looking at the canopy and silently practicing what she would say to him. She had heard William moving around in his office, restless.

She did not remember sleep coming, but she remembered William waking her, guiding her away from nightmares and back to the safety of his arms. In the darkness, she told him the truth. He offered to be the father of her child, and she had so much wanted him to be. 

'Take' and 'derive' - in French and in Welsh, the words differed. Men had taken pleasure from her body before but it was different letting a man derive it. To offer herself freely. To feel his breath quicken, and his lips and tongue and hands against her skin. His breath in her ear, his fingers exploring and pressing into her sex. To run her hands through his dark hair; to open her eyes and discover him looking down at her. To read affection and trust accompanying the desire in his eyes. To touch him. To know his secrets. To feel his skin warm and his flesh harden until it became insistent. To open her legs, offering what he wanted. To feel discomfort as he entered her, but not want it to stop. To know the ache and the aching pleasure of being penetrated, filled, insistently stretched an inch at a time. To submit fully; to have his body deep, deep inside hers, again and again, faster, harder. To forget everything except this is how men have loved women since the beginning of time. To hear the things he whispered into her ear, so desperate he seemed in pain. To feel strong muscles tighten and shudder in pleasure, and relax. To feel, after he left her, an empty, nostalgic ache.

This William was brilliant and brave and kinder than he wanted men to know. Thoughtful, willful, and scarred and skittish from too many wounds. He was reclusive and melancholy and much, much more dangerous than the English King. All King John could do was abuse her for sport; William, if she let herself love him, could hurt her far more deeply.

A dangerous storm of emotions grew inside her along with this child. 

The Welsh soldiers in the bailey lined up shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs to her window, offering their weapons for Melvin to inspect. William, in armor and astride a huge black war horse, looked up at the window where she stood. She could not tell if William saw her in the shadows, but he continued to watch as if he did. 

She suspected William was correct; worlds existed they knew nothing of, worlds across the sea or beyond stars or from another time. 

In her eighth year Duana had taken a fever so high she had not known her family. She shivered and sweated as demons had tormented her, tricking her to see and hear unreal things. Days swirled by until she woke in the darkness, her young mind clear but alone and too scared to cry out for her mother. Her father and brothers were working in the city, but she saw a strange man standing nearby. The man was clean and cleanly shaven, but oddly dressed and with cropped hair. He looked around and peered at Duana curiously. He seemed to recognize her. He had smiled kindly and squatted down. He was not flesh, but neither was he evil. Rather than being frightened, with a child's trust, she pulled up her feet so he could sit at the bottom of her pallet. He had. The man looked her father's age, but with the soft hands and smooth skin of a nobleman. Duana thought him the most beautiful thing she ever saw, but that might have been the aftereffects of the fever. The fire crackled and wolves howled in the distance but they could not get her. He protected her from them.

Duana did not know how long the strange man sat at her feet, but he never spoke or touched her. He kept watch and kept her from being afraid during the night. Once her mother returned with buckets of water, and Duana no longer needed him, the man faded away like mist in the morning sun. Duana never told a soul about the mysterious man, and people would have called her bewitched or a flighty girl if she had. The man was not William, but an echo of William from a faraway world. Duana was sure of it.

Duana would not have this man die because of her.

In the bailey, William sat well on his horse, holding the reins with one hand and resting the other palm on his thigh. The sun rose fully over the mountains, making the frozen world sparkle. William looked up at her window again. His expression did not change but Duana saw his free hand move twice - two slight flicks of his fingers - telling Duana to move back before someone else saw her wearing only his robe. 

He had the eyes of an old soul. A seeker and an artist concealed by armor, she thought, watching him. Of his accord, this man would pursue mythical creatures and play chess and watch the stars, not ride to war. He would drink wine and teach her lute and write to his son. And make love. Yesterday, while looking for a quill, Duana found a new drawing hidden in William’s desk. A drawing of Duana as she slept. William had neglected to draw her chemise, but been generous in imagining her hips and bust. 

For a nobleman who stumbled over every word not Welsh or Latin, he pronounced perfectly the names of Irish fairies and Manx ghosts and even fanciful creatures said to lurk in the Holy Land. He habitually said ‘I am not so large’ in French though she suspected he meant ‘I will not hurt you.’ She chose not to dwell on how he came by that mistake. He talked of such odd things she wondered if either he misspoke or she misunderstood. But William called her 'Cariad.' Beloved. He said the Welsh word clearly, and she understood it. He called her many silly things as he avoided having to pronounce her name, but she suspected William did not apply the word 'beloved' lightly. 

She stepped back into the shadows but continued to watch him. He looked exactly the part of a general overseeing his knights as they prepared for war. Every so often though, he would look up at the dark, high window. He could not possibly see her but Duana wondered if he felt her. She felt him - not only between her legs, but deeper inside her, in the place she carried instincts and half-remembered dreams.

She chose William. Or perhaps, Fate chose William for her the way God chose kings and popes.

He called her 'beloved,' and said to trust he could keep her and her child safe. He said this child was his, and dared anyone to say otherwise, even the English King.

She could no more leave this man than she could will herself not to breathe.

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth II: Cariad 

Hiraeth III: Saeson

*~*~*~*

"She still stands, my lord." Merfyn's words made five puffs of white vapor in the wet night. Even after fifty years, or because of fifty years, the sergeant's eyes were sharp. He could spot an enemy scout, a pretty woman, or a free tankard of beer at a hundred yards. 

The weary knights behind and around Gwilym looked up at the dark horizon, exhaled and muttered words of relief and thankfulness. Every man had returned home, whole of body and sound of mind, though not necessarily pure of heart. The only injuries were Gwilym's shoulder and a man who lost a tooth in a brawl. If Merfyn sighted Aber Castle, they would be home by breakfast.

Gwilym looked high on the horizon. He saw nothing.

He reined in Goliath. The knights with him slowed their horses until the hoof beats sloshed to a stop on the road. The cold, merciless drizzle continued. Rain soaked Gwilym's cloak and wove through his armor to the tunic and breeches underneath. His beard shielded his jaw but the exposed skin on his forehead felt cold yet scorched. His squire, a boy about Dafydd's age, sat down tiredly in the muck.

Gwilym squinted at the darkness, rubbed his stinging eyes, and squinted again.

Another squire sat down beside the road. The boys leaned against each other like sleepy children. A few knights dismounted to relieve themselves, but most remained in their saddle. Their cold, red hands held the reins and their shoulders hunched against the wind and rain.

As the night gave way to dawn, Gwilym made out the walls of Aber Castle rising high over the valley. His sanctuary, beautiful in her simplicity and grace, awesome in her quiet strength, awaited.

"She still stands, Merfyn." Gwilym exhaled. He felt no less cold or wet or pained, but he minded less once the end was in sight.

Goliath snorted and tossed his head, jerking the reins against Gwilym's injured shoulder. The horse’s hooves pranced in place, making sloppy, sucking noises.

Gwilym rubbed the animal's neck, thawing his fingers and promising carrots and a warm stall. In their many journeys, Gwilym and Goliath had seen all of Wales many times over, as well as England and France and even the Holy Land. Goliath remained eager to go each time his owner appeared in his armor and red or white tunic, but the miles home had become longer. If it was on this Earth to be challenged or explored, Gwilym had done so in his six and thirty years. For the last ten years, Goliath had carried him one thunderous stride at a time. 

If Gwilym remained in God's favor, that sleeping castle contained a slight, auburn-haired, headstrong woman who spoke good French and fair Welsh and questioned him more than any female should. All but one of King John's land barons had fled southern Wales, and Prince Llewelyn ruled undisputed. The Magna Carta gelded King John; the French and Scottish troops in southern England were the Norman's problem, not the Welsh's. Gwilym had killed his share of Infidels for the Pope and the Templars, as well. He had done his duty to God, to Llewelyn, and to the Norman King. 

Hopefully, the time had come to go home and to stay home. To raise his children and rule his land. To read books, play music, and drink wine by the fire. To make love to his wife. To hunt and fish and beat Llewelyn at chess. Plant crops and settle peasant disputes and watch the sun rise over his mountains and set behind the Irish Sea. Both Gwilym and Goliath grew too old for nonsense like wars and adventures.

The rest of the world wore an old shirt, the landscape threadbare with colors bleached by the sun into muted hues. Few things still shone brilliantly, and that castle held most of them. Having heard nothing but Merfyn's cynicism and taunts for months, Gwilym worried his memory grew faulty along with his eyesight. Perhaps he remembered home as pleasanter than it was, as one remembers favorite foods from childhood. Marzipan was not as nice once he could have it whenever he liked; sticky treats stolen as a boy tasted much sweeter.

If asked - and Gwilym did not care to ask - Merfyn would say Duana was the same: the having would not be as good as the wanting.

Gwilym inhaled and reminded himself Merfyn was far better with a blade than women. Merfyn had been married five times but only twice seriously wounded in battle. Gwilym, on the other hand, had been mistaken for a deer and shot through with an arrow by a squire while taking a piss one morning - though that was not the story Gwilym planned to tell Duana.

An anchor, Duana said. Gwilym was in need of an anchor. He found it barefooted and wearing his bedrobe one cold night in Wales. After looking the world over and finding shallow brooks instead of deep waters, he discovered himself reflected in eyes as blue as a still lake. Her surface was so calm, but in her depths was the hand holding Arthur's sword. 

A man finds where he wants to be, drops anchor, and there he stays. 

Please let her choose to stay, he prayed silently to the Virgin. The cold rain dripped from the tip of his nose. Please let the wars and the raids and sieges end so he could stay, as well. Or, at least, let his cause be his own and let him always find his way back to her again. It was a simple prayer, but as heartfelt as any he ever sent upward.

On impulse, Gwilym leaned forward in the saddle and tightened his calves. Goliath charged forward, then settled into the slow rock of a powerful, ground-covering canter. 

"Why the hurry, Llwynog?" Merfyn shouted after him.

Behind Gwilym, the squires scrambled to their feet. The dismounted knights swung up into their saddle. Wet leather creaked and armor clinked as men shouted to each other and their squires to hurry up or be left behind. 

Merfyn's horse galloped twenty feet behind Goliath, and gained ground.

Aber Village was five miles away by road but less through the woods. Deciding he had seen enough Roman roads, Gwilym turned Goliath and let him bound down a steep slope. Merfyn followed, and Merfyn's knights followed him, some more eagerly than others by the sound of it. The slope ended in a muddy, fallow field. On level ground, the knights began pushing their horses, competing to get ahead. Or at least, ahead of Merfyn. Merfyn's bad-tempered gelding would have none of it. With the old sergeant riding low and forward on his back, the big horse stretched out his legs and neck until the horse's nose reached Goliath's haunches. For decades, that had been Merfyn's place as they charged into battle: at Gwilym's right hand.

An old stone fence marked the edge of the field. There was a gate, but Gwilym did not slow up, nor did Merfyn. Both men rose in their stirrups, let their horses gather themselves, and cleared the stones easily. Behind him, Gwilym heard his men urging their horses to jump, as well. There were victorious whoops from the knights who cleared the fence, and curses from a few men whose horses refused and had to wait for a squire to catch up and open the gate. 

Goliath's sides heaved, but he snorted, still eager to run. Merfyn's gelding cantered with Goliath. The first rays of dawn streamed down through the mist and treetops. The other knights followed them into the dark woods, dodging trees and calling taunts and laughing at their own folly. The squires ran after them. By morning, Gwilym, his sergeant, four dozen knights, and all their servants and squires scattered chickens, pigs, dogs, peasants, and sheep as they thundered into the square of Aber Village.

*~*~*~* 

A blond man in the next valley, when not producing love potions for wives wanting to conceive or charms for those who did not, spent his time trying to turn lead into gold. Gwilym had passed several summer days with the alchemist. He wanted an opinion of this new science, should he ever be asked or find someone willing to listen. Gwilym did not disbelieve Llangly's claims, but he saw no gold in the cluttered hut, either. 

Perhaps Llangly was correct but pursuing the wrong elements. In Gwilym's own inner bailey, someone had managed to cross a woman with a chicken and marry the result to Merfyn.

Although Gwilym could not fathom why, young Elan did this each time the men were away, whether for an afternoon or months. She waited at Merfyn's stirrup as though about to convulse until Merfyn dismounted, then she clucked and fussed over him like a hen. She clucked, and all Merfyn's chicks, which ranged from babes-in-arms to middle-aged adults with their own children, fussed as well. Each family member got a quick greeting. The scruffy old sergeant - scruffy even by the standards of soldiers in an army camp in winter - received a welcoming kiss from his wife that made the other knights shift in their saddle. Merfyn winked at Gwilym, tossed his reins at a squire, and disappeared into his house beyond the stables with his wife and brood.

Most of the elite cavalry lived in the village of Aber rather than the castle, so only a dozen knights had ridden the last mile up the steep hill. The horses were lathered, and the men so muddy one could barely be told from another. Gwilym slid down from Goliath and gave the big courser a pat on the rump as a stable boy led the horse away. 

Gwilym looked for Duana in the commotion of families and servants greeting returning husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons. Leuan clutched his cross and walked toward Gwilym with great intent. Glancing up, Gwilym saw the window of his- her- their bedchamber remained shuttered. Perhaps she still slept. With a baby coming in a few more months, he did not begrudge her the rest, but a warmer welcome would have been nice. Especially in front of his men.

A young woman presented Gwilym's knight with a baby only days old. Another knight carried a smiling little girl in each arm and proclaimed they had each grown a foot. Mawr and Mawr Hyll’s mother fussed over them. Old men hobbled out to greet returning sons, and young sons scampered to embrace returning fathers. His men got kissed and congratulated and scolded for not taking better care of themselves. Gwilym saw his teenage squire sneak behind the woodpile to kiss the cooper's youngest daughter.

Gwilym was sore, soaking wet, filthy, exhausted, and hot and cold at the same time. His armor felt twice as heavy as it should. Gwilym had anticipated a welcoming embrace from his wife, followed by a hot bath and a big fuss over his shoulder. For pity's sake, not even his dogs came to greet him this morning. All hail the conquering hero, he thought sarcastically.

"We must speak, Gwilym," Leuan said urgently. The priest guided Gwilym into the great hall and away from other ears. "We must speak of your wife."

Gwilym took off his helmet. The back of his tongue thickened as worry began to pool and drip to a little puddle in his belly. Duana did not seem one to shrug off the propriety of publicly greeting her husband.

Gwilym sent her several letters during the months he was away. She had replied to each in her careful handwriting, saying all was well and he must take good care of himself. Since letters might be intercepted, he could not ask about the child so soon. However, the messenger who brought her last response said Duana perhaps looked like she might be with child. Perhaps. Possibly, the young man had hedged. Or possibly not. Despite interrogating the messenger, that was all the information Gwilym possessed: two weeks ago, Duana was in Aber and perhaps, possibly noticeably pregnant. Or not pregnant. 

Seeing Gwilym's expression, Leuan hurried to add, "She is well. I told her to remain in your bedchamber until I could speak to you."

Gwilym raised his brows as a servant took his sword and helped slide his wet cloak off his wounded shoulder. "You told her to remain? How did you manage the stones for that?" Duana did not take kindly to being ordered around, and Leuan was painfully awkward around women.

Another servant unfastened Gwilym's armor. The weight lifted from his body felt glorious. The tunic and breeches under his armor had once been blue. And dry. And clean.

Leuan dogged after Gwilym as he mounted the stairs. He felt every slate step jar his bones. Gwilym waived off Gwen's offer of wine and breakfast.

The knights ate and drank, and drank some more at Llewelyn's castle in Dolwyddelan the previous evening. As the revelry died down and the men either passed out or adjourned to a private corner with the love of their evening, Gwilym ordered the horses re-saddled. Four was morning, he had informed his bleary-eyed men; somewhere a deluded cock crowed. Gwilym planned an apology at supper tonight. Four was only morning when a man was twenty. After that, four was the proper time to make a trip to the privy, peer briefly out at the stars, and crawl back into a soft, warm bed.

Bed. Duana was abed. What foresight. What a brilliant, thoughtful woman. 

Gwilym looked at Leuan and tried to remember why the priest pestered him.

"Well, perhaps Lady Duana was up last night caring for a sick maid and fell back to sleep, and I told the servants not to wake her," Leuan said. "Perhaps Lady Duana does not always heed my advice."

"Perhaps." Gwilym yawned. “It seems a common affliction.” 

In his office, the smell of crisp linens and worn leather and old books blended with the softer note of fragrant soap and rich textiles and spicy, exotic tea. He detected the lingering scent of fresh bread and warm wine, but also lavender and rose and myrtle. His private rooms did not smell solely of his life anymore.

Standing in front of the bedchamber door, Father Leuan folded his arms and blocked Gwilym's entrance. If Gwilym had possessed two working arms, he would have picked Leuan up and moved him. Instead, he asked tersely, "Leuan, what?" 

"Llwynog, she..." Leuan disintegrated into embarrassed sputters.

"What?" Gwilym snapped. "If she is here and she is well, I am content. I received your letters screaming to Heaven because she looks over the ledgers - as we decided she could before I left. I know Duana is setting far too many eggs to hatch, in your opinion, so we are all in danger of being overrun by poultry. I know she bought cloth for three - count them - three new dresses - one blue, one green, and one russet - so she is not wearing what she brought from London last winter and borrowed from the maids. The last message said the entire castle is sinfully having bread with every meal. I fear we are all damned." 

"Violet. One dress is more violet than russet."

"What is it? Spit it out before I throttle you!"

Leuan let the words fall out. "She looks to be breeding." 

Gwilym patted the priest's shoulder, too tired to laugh. In Leuan's mind, as in Gwen's, Gwilym remained forever a boy. "She is. Duana told me." 

"Gwilym-" Leuan said warningly.

"She told me," he repeated slowly. These past months, Gwilym had allowed a candle of hope to burn. If Duana looked pregnant enough for Leuan to be concerned, though, King John was likely the father of her child. 

Regardless, as Prince Llewelyn like to say when they were boys, 'possession is the majority of the law.' Gwilym and Llewelyn had settled childhood disputes over toy swords and pet hawks easily. One of them either ran to his tutor to tell, or he beat the other boy senseless. Three decades later, Llewel had troops in all but one of the Norman castles of Wales; that and King John's seal on the Magna Carta made Wales Llewelyn's. Duana was Gwilym's legal wife: his property, according to the King's own law. That made her child Gwilym's. It was roughly the same principle.

"Think this through, Gwilym," Leuan cautioned. "I know you are fond of her, but put your head before your heart for once. What if the Crown hears of this?"

"Hears my new wife is with child?" Gwilym lowered his voice and switched to French. "Duana is slight; if the child is large, she will appear more pregnant than she is."

"Gwilym..."

Gwilym leaned back against a cold stone pillar beside the door. He closed his eyelids. "Perhaps we did not wait until the proxy marriage was blessed," he said tiredly. "I will do penance if I laid with my wife before it met with your approval. The baby may come early; first babies do that in Wales." 

"None of that is the truth, Fox. You are besotted. Open your eyes, look at me and tell me you believe this child is yours. I am not saying Lady Duana would ever sin against you by choice, Fox-"

"Stop calling me that!" Gwilym pulled himself up to his full height. "I am not a boy. I am the lord of this land, and if I do not question my wife, it is certainly not your place, John."

The priest took a deep, disapproving breath. "I am sorry I brought this on you. I knew there was little chance of her leaving Court without being accosted but so did you. I did not dream this would be the result. I thought her barren."

As if he heard none of that, Gwilym responded in Welsh, "Congratulate me, Leuan. By fall, my wife and I will have a child."

The priest said hollowly, "Congratulations, Lord Gwilym." 

Leuan left the office. His footsteps echoed heavily down the stairs. He would light a candle for this child and for them all if the King discovered it existed. As cold-blooded and calculating as Gwilym was in war, he was reckless in love. Diana, Phoebe, Muretta: Father Leuan could list the pretty peasant women who gained a great deal from Gwilym and gave him little more than heartbreak in return. No legitimate sons. No dowry. No peace. Once again, Gwilym was enamored with a woman and was not, despite his claims, thinking this through. Wives were much more easily replaced than sons.

*~*~*~* 

Before Gwilym could comprehend what happened, he lay sprawled on the bedchamber floor. A woman straddled his chest and held a knife to his throat. Not a big knife, but big enough. By Christ’s bones, Father Leuan would faint if he heard a lady could curse like that. Four languages. Duana threatened Gwilym in Welsh, French, Irish-Gaelic, and English. His new wife had a good ear for languages and, apparently was also good with a blade.

"It is William. Gwilym. Duana, put down the knife." He spoke in a hoarse whisper as he struggled to keep the dagger away from his throat. "Duana."

With the shutters closed, their bedchamber was dim. Clearly, she did not recognize her loving husband under his beard and blood and dirt. Gwilym had wanted to wake her with a kiss, but there had been a truly unromantic a turn of events. 

"Duana." He pleaded through his teeth. He did not want to call guards to rescue him from the wrath of eight stones of woman. She had the advantage, though. And the knife. And the use of both arms. Their wrestling match would be funny except for the danger to his life. "Duana, stop. Are you so wanton you will take me by force?"

She kept hold of his wrist and the knife, not lowering the blade. "William?" 

"Correct, witch. I am William."

Duana sat back. 

He exhaled. The cold floor felt nice once she stopped brandishing the knife. Gwilym lay resting and awaiting his dignity's return. 

"William, I am so sorry." She knelt beside him. She wore a long white chemise and two worried, apologetic lines between her brows. "I was asleep. Are you hurt? Have I hurt you?"

"I will live." He remained splayed on the floor. "I am yours, my lady. The conquering hero. Ravish me. Pay no mind if I snore or bleed."

"You smell foul." She examined the stained, mended fabric at the shoulder of his shirt. "I want to bathe you and ensure you are in one piece, not ravish you."

Gwilym chucked. He reached up to toy with the end of her long braid. "Ravish me afterward."

"As you wish, my lord."

She smiled, and he took her hand affectionately. After a few seconds, she slid his hand down and turned it so his palm rested on the little swell of her stomach.

"You are well?"

She nodded. 

Gwilym smiled back at her, and let her help him slowly, painfully to his feet. 

*~*~*~* 

Duana stripped off Gwilym’s shirt and discovered the arrow wound through his right shoulder. In short order, she wiped off his top-most layer of grime, bandaged him up, insisted he drink some horrible tea, and put him to bed. He slept heavily through the day and woke feeling - and smelling - like the inside of a drunkard's mouth. As compared to Merfyn, Gwilym thought he smelled good, but Duana arranged a hot bath and strong soap, indicating she disagreed. Ravishment required bathing. A Welsh woman could divorce her husband for having chronic bad breath, Duana informed him. Gwilym threatened to take his book of Welsh law from her. Still, Duana had believed his story about his pissing valor and the resulting wound, and fussed over him in a satisfying manner. 

Although bathing in the kitchens was warmer, supper was being prepared. Gwilym preferred not to give the kitchen maids anything more to discuss, so the bedchamber sufficed. Bathed, barbered, shaved - by Gwen instead of his blade-happy bride - and wearing one of the new shirts that appeared during his absence, Gwilym's belly growled in anticipation of the lamb stew simmering, and he felt a great deal better.

After the evening banquet, as Gwilym’s knights continued celebrating their victory, Gwilym slipped away to the quiet of the stables. He found Goliath also cleaner and rested. The black horse blinked placidly in his corner stall and leaned his head down for the carrots Gwilym offered. Crunching, Goliath accepted scratches behind his ears and under his muzzle with great majesty.

Gwilym heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw Duana making her way through the stable with his ever-loyal dogs and two of his largest knights as escorts.

"You have stolen my hounds' hearts while I was away. Stay away from my horse, you witch," Gwilym called.

She dismissed Mawr and Mawr Hyll. The dogs wandered off after the knights. Gwilym cut the last carrot awkwardly with his dagger and left hand. He offered the slobbery handful of orange hunks to Duana.

"Thank you," she replied impassively, "but I had carrots at supper."

The Greeks developed the astrolabe to measure the height of objects in the heavens. The Romans calculated distance with an odometer. Gwilym had seen magnetic lodestones, and parchment made of wood pulp, and a needle which always indicated north, and a water device dripping to mark the passage of time. New homes possessed chimneys, silk made of worm cocoons came from the Holy Land, and every peasant had a wheelbarrow. With so many scientific advancements, Gwilym should get Llangly the alchemist to design some device to gauge when Duana was and was not teasing him. 

"Do you want to feed Goliath? He is gentle."

That was foolish, he scolded himself. Duana was not a princess whose feet seldom touched grass and thought of goats and cows as pets. In fact, she probably found it amusing he fed treats to an old warhorse. 

She held out the apple she had brought. Goliath perked his ears forward and sniffed. After a moment, the destrier snorted at her offering and flared his nostrils. 

"He will not eat it whole. Only cut up."

Several stalls down, Duana's pretty gray mare stuck her head out and called to her mistress. 

"Does he spoil you, Goliath?" Duana asked the big stallion. "Do you want to sleep in our bed and beg scraps from the table?" She rubbed the horse’s face.

"Goliath does not speak French." Gwilym sliced the apple as roughly as the carrots. "He does not understand you. He snores, too. Worse than me. You would not want both of us in our bed." 

She had said 'our bed,' though they should not be together while she was with child. Of course, if couples did not whenever the Church said they should not, that left Thursdays - excepting Lent and Advent – except if the woman was breeding or bleeding or unclean after a birth. She must be married in the Church and married to that particular man. Proper intercourse must be after dark, mostly dressed, eyes closed, husband-atop, and no one should enjoy it too much. By contrast, Welsh tradition was sons came if the woman reached orgasm. A woman breeding or newly delivered of a child was happier astride a lover than beneath one, in Gwilym's experience. Also, Gwilym could not be the only man who liked to leave a candle lit to see his bedmate. Father Leuan probably gave himself hand-cramps trying to mark down all the sins of the men of Aber.

The image made Gwilym smile: the old priest going from house to house in the village, peeking in at night, and making notes and drawings in his ledger. For some inexplicable reason, Duana smiled back.

If Duana could have this child, she could have another, a fact Father Leuan pointed out twice to Gwilym this evening. Even another child or two. Gwilym did not mind a timid but willing bedmate - not as his wife. In time, Duana's desire for a man might kindle. Gwilym had occupied many nights during the siege thinking of what she had done to him with her mouth. Other nights, as the knights snored and the rain in southern Wales battered his tent, he remembered the feel of her bare breasts against his chest, her hands on his shoulders, and the warmth of her breath on his throat. The tight, slick heat inside her, and her gasping but her legs remaining open. Letting him love her until on the cusp of that moment all thought left a man’s head, he heard Duana tell him again, “I choose you.”

Llewelyn held all of Wales that mattered, and King John lacked money to order the Welshmen to war more than the required forty days each year. Aber Castle would again have children – Gwilym’s children – battling dragons in the inner bailey and playing hide-and-seek in the great hall. A bright, inquisitive little girl, as Tyna had been. One day, Dafydd would return from London, a full knight. He and Gwilym could hunt and fish and decide which of Llewelyn’s daughters by Tang Dafydd wanted as a wife. “Both,” Dafydd’s last response regarding pretty Gwladus and young Angharad, was adventurous but not a choice. There would be feasts, festivals, Christmas and Beltane. Love to make, babies to hold, books to read, mysteries to ponder. Gwilym saw a pleasant life unfolding; he had to remain present to enjoy it.

Gwilym watched Duana feed the apple slices one at a time while the stallion waited patiently. Duana's mare called again, sounding plaintive and perplexed. Duana took her one bite each of carrot and apple, assured the mare - Eleanor - she was a sweet girl, and returned to Gwilym and Goliath.

As his wife resumed feeding his horse, Gwilym said, "I bought Goliath the year Dafydd was five and my daughter was born, and my father and Diana died. Dafydd named him Goliath, and I thought that brilliant. Dafydd and Goliath. I used to lead Goliath around the bailey with Dafydd riding barebacked and clinging to his mane. For King John, Llewelyn and I battled the French, the Irish, and the French again. Once the Crusades began, I could be away for years, but Dafydd and his sister would run to meet me each time I returned. My children would climb on Goliath and request we ride in search of dragons or Normans or Infidels. Each time, we spent a season battling imaginary enemies and learning music and letters. Each time, I rode to war again, leaving them behind with Gwen and Father Leuan."

Duana turned from the horse to Gwilym. She rested a hand on the little swell of her belly and listened as though trying hard to understand.

"I was a poor husband in my youth, and I could not give my children their mother back," Gwilym said. "I raised my children alone and as my father raised me: by messenger from the front line of some war, and returning to Aber to proclaim how much they had grown. At the time, I called that duty. Necessary. Now- Now, I think I was too busy saving the world to take care of what mattered. I will not let that happen again."

Gwilym thought he remembered Duana: the borderland at the base of her throat and the strands of auburn hair creeping from under her veil, tormenting her with imperfection. His memory must be growing old along with his eyesight because he noticed new curves to be explored, different things behind her eyes to ponder. Gwilym had not been able to watch her amid the bard and juggler and his high-spirited knights at supper. To pause, clear his mind, and drink this woman in until he was full of her. In that way, he remained a hungry man. He thought again of the feel of her beneath him, and the sensation of her body slowly opening to receive his. Gwilym had not planned to sleep alone while he was away. That had never been his habit in the past. Time had slipped past without any of the camp whores turning his head. His hand and imagination, however, had met on numerous occasions in the last months.

Goliath nudged Duana's chest with his nose, expressing his displeasure at having eaten the last of her treats.

"Easy," Gwilym cautioned the horse, but told Duana, "He is greedy. He will take all you will give."

Gwilym waited for a response. He heard a cat in the hayloft pounce on a hapless mouse that thought it found a safe haven for the night.

"It is time for bed," he said, unsure whether to use his seducing or commanding voice - as though one might be more successful than the other. 

"It is."

"I am wounded. I should not be alone. My wound requires tending."

"My Lord, you took a castle, led your men twice across Wales and, as I hear it, you and your knights still terrorized the woods this morning, screaming at the top of your lungs like Infidel women. Now your wound requires tending and you cannot manage your boots and breeches alone?" 

He shrugged, but regretted it as pain shot through his shoulder. "Those were manly, Christian screams." 

Duana pushed up the sleeves of her new dress - which was more violet than russet - crossed her arms, and fixed those blue eyes on him steadily, as though she thought him the King of Fools. "Are you fevered?"

"You are to blame," he accused her. "I am still half out of my mind from all the poppy and willow you put in that witches' brew this morning. I was at war. I was wounded in battle while you sewed shirts and-" He gestured to her new roundness, "grew a child. I return, and you attack me, drug me, and glare at me. I was better off in my tent with Merfyn to give me the evil eye."

Her response was to give Goliath a final pat, bid her mare goodnight, and to make her way out of the stable without a word to Gwilym. 

Gwilym hurried after her, tripping over an empty bucket in his haste. "Christ on the Cross, woman." He caught up to her in the stable doorway. "I am joking. Do not dare walk away from me." 

Duana stopped and stepped close to him. She put her hand low on his hip. "I am not walking away from you, my lord."

"Are you not?"

Her fingertips caressed his hip. "I am walking to bed, as you commanded."

He managed not to chuckle, and instead scowled down at her. "Is there a French word for wives who are docile and obedient? Wives who remember their husband is their lord and live in fear of his displeasure?"

Duana thought a moment. She tapped his chest as though she remembered. "Norman," she said happily. "The French word is 'Norman.'" She repeated the word a third time slowly, as if helping him learn it. "Nor-man." She tiptoed to kiss his lips. "Shall I fetch you one, my lord?"

He rested his forehead against hers. "Cariad, I prefer a challenge."

Duana took his hand. Gwilym let her lead him across the bailey, through the chaotic great hall, up the stairs, and to their bed.

*~*~*~*

Later - not a long time, but clearly long enough - Duana scooted up on the mattress and rested her head on Gwilym's good shoulder. Downstairs, the revelry continued in their absence. Upstairs, the hearth crackled and the candles scattered around their bedchamber flickered. His clothes and hers lay on the floor. Nude and amiable and still sweaty, he lay with Duana beneath the fur covers. Fat cats asleep by a fire with cream on their whiskers envied Gwilym. 

Gwilym's lower abdomen shivered pleasantly as Duana traced a warm finger across a scar. "And this?" she asked softly. 

"An Irish spear with a very angry, though very inaccurate, Irishman behind it," he told her lazily. "The King sent the Welsh army with his troops to take Dublin, and the inhabitants of the city objected. That was the year I came home to find my father dying of his wounds and Diana dead."

Duana folded down the covers casually, seeming to pay no mind to his state of undress. Or hers. Her breasts were fuller, her hips rounder. She looked pregnant enough the baby would quicken soon, if it had not already. "Here?" She traced the old, raised scar on his thigh.

"That one is not so good for bragging. I got it the first summer I was allowed to travel with Father on Crusade. My uncle was Commander of the City of Jerusalem for the Knights Templar. I was so excited to meet him I fell off my horse and onto a pike. The wound did not heal well, so Father and Leuan stayed with me in Jerusalem instead of riding with my uncle as they intended." He hesitated. "Near the Sea of Galilee, Uncle Rhonald led the Knights into a skirmish with the Infidels who had been accosting the pilgrims. The skirmish turned into the Battle of the Horns of Hattin. On the fourth day of July in 1187, the Knights Templar died to the last man, captured and beheaded, my uncle among them." He paused again. "I was eight years old." 

By candlelight, Gwilym saw her eyes watching him. 

"You have the hurts of your life written on your body," she commented, "as though an artist with a red brush painted the worst moments into your flesh."

"I will let you take pity on me again, in a few hours." Gwilym pulled her close to him, wanting to talk of more pleasant things. “You will end up with twins in that belly.”

"If I take pity on you twice in one night, on a Sunday, fully undressed so you can see all of me, and while I am with child, there will be a 'thud' the next time I confess because the priest - your fierce Templar warrior Father John - will faint."

"I will need to fan Leuan if you ever must confess you enjoyed it." Gwilym spoke lightly, getting sleepy. “That you do not act solely out of duty.”

A long silence followed, and Gwilym wished he could take those words back. 

“I do not act solely out of duty,” she said quietly, sounding hurt. “I have missed you. You are my husband, and I have missed you very much.”

He worried his lip between his teeth. She was a Norman noblewoman and his arranged, Christian wife. If he wanted his pride assuaged, for a few coins, a prostitute would feign orgasm the moment his breeches came off. 

“I will do whatever you want,” she assured him. “I-I thought I had pleased you.”

"I know," he said, and he did. “You did. Do I seem displeased?”

“My hair is down. I am fully undressed. The candles are lit. I-I did exactly as you asked. I do not understand. What is it you want me to do, William?” she persisted. “Tell me, and I will do as you wish. Be atop you, with your shoulder wounded? I will do that. Or, or, whatever you want.”

He pulled the furs and blankets up and over their bare skin. “I want you to sleep,” he commanded. “Remember your new husband is a Welsh barbarian who has been too long among peasants and army camps and taverns. Remember you have filled him with strong wine and tea laced with poppy and witchcraft. Remember he speaks before the thinks, sometimes, and he is well-pleased with you, and go to sleep.”

Duana lay curled against him, with his chin resting on top of her head. She was quiet. Gwilym neared the precipice of sleep, but her thigh stirred, pressing gently between his legs. 

"What is the Welsh word for this, William? I cannot ask Father John."

"Leuan would have something to pray about for weeks if you did," he murmured. "Bonllost' is a polite term. Prick. This -" He ran his hand over her breast. "Is 'mynwes,' a woman's breast and, laying close to me like this, you are at my 'asgre.' At a man's bosom."

"You have 'bonllost' and I have 'mynwes'?" 

"And I thank the Blessed Virgin for both. Go to sleep,” he repeated.

Two dogs decided the activity under the furs had stopped for the night, leapt up on the bed, and found places. One nosed Gwilym suspiciously as though wondering why their lord was off the sofa. 

"William, are you asleep?" Duana asked quietly.

"Um-hum," he responded without opening his mouth or eyes.

“I could have objected tonight and said being with you, while I am with child, is a sin. Or said you are wounded and must rest. You could have said the same. You could have lingered at Dolwyddelan Castle this morning. Or, remembering your new wife is pregnant and not skilled at lovemaking, you could have stopped in any tavern to ensure you did not come home unsatisfied. You could have brought home some spoil of war. Any of those actions would have been reasonable. Prudent, even. Yet neither of us did any of them.”

“You are impertinent,” he mumbled. “I knew what I wanted.”

“I did, as well. I do enjoy my Welsh lessons. You are a good teacher. If you want me to enjoy them still more, my husband must remain home and I must apply myself to that end.” 

"Umm. Wanton, pregnant or not, I will apply my hand to your lovely end if you do not let me sleep.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she said obligingly.

Gwilym chuckled. “I beg you: tonight, let me rest and heal. In the morning, we can practice Welsh again. We can practice anything in my vocabulary so long as I do not have to move my right shoulder, and you do not put your finger in my end, as a woman in Calais once did. She asked something in French and, since I did not understand, I nodded. When I confessed what she had done- A year’s penance for a misunderstanding, Cariad. A year.”

Duana’s body jiggled against him as she laughed. She said easily, “Voulez-vous mon doigt dans le cul?”

“I will not have my honor besmirched again,” he insisted. “Non. Merci, mais non.”

“I am telling you the French phrase in case you ever have need of it again. Or Prince Llewelyn asks.”

As he promised, Gwilym brought his hand down on her hip in two loud smacks, but not hard enough to truly hurt. “Wanton, wanton witch. I may remember that phrase once both my hands work again.”

She laughed again, and snuggled beside him with her head on his shoulder again. He stroked her back, her bottom. Kissed the crown of her head. Her warm body blended with his as thoroughly as if an alchemist melded them. Gwilym cut the last rope holding him to consciousness and, not minding the lack of blood flow between his liver and left arm, finally slept. 

*~*~*~*

Duana was not fevered, nor bewitched. She was merely pregnant and beginning to understand the phrase 'great with child,' though she still had months to go. She opened her eyes, safe in William's arms as he slept, to see the man who was not her William watching her in their bedchamber.

Curious, she opened the bed curtain farther to see him in the candlelight. The William near the hearth was the same man she saw as a girl, but a few years older. He stood strong and slim; she saw the outline of his stomach and shoulder muscles. He bore scars on his left shoulder and both knees, and a long, straight scar down the center of his chest. She could not fathom such a wound survivable, but he carried the scar. He was her William, but one who had lived another life.

He wore short, soft-looking braies. Stubble shadowed his face, and his short hair flattened on one side as if he had been sleeping. Perhaps he stumbled out of his dream in his world and, momentarily, into hers.

He glanced at her husband's boots and clothing strewn across the floor. At the tapestry on the wall. At a high wooden chest, a sock she finished knitting last night, and at a shard of glassy ore William insisted was petrified lightning. After surveying the bedchamber, the man studied Duana with a curious expression. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

She pushed up on her elbow and asked softly, "Are you William?" in Welsh, in Irish, and then in French. She was not sure phantoms in the night could speak. "What is your name, my lord?"

He stared at her for a second. "Bad hard."

"Bad hard?" she whispered. She realized he said a name, not individual words. Mal Dur. "Maldur?" 

He nodded. “Mulder.” He pointed at her and said flatly, as an Englishman would, "Scully?"

She felt a tingle pass through her as if lightning struck close by.

He smiled, and Duana did not think she had ever seen a man so happy and relieved. He asked something but she did not understand. His French was different from hers. Not only the accent, but some of the words.

As she should have been frightened as a girl to wake to a strange man beside her bed, she should be embarrassed now, in her chemise, with her hair down. She was not, though. She thought nothing more of it than if her own William had walked in. Whoever this mysterious man was, her soul recognized his.

The baby shifted. Duana put her hand on her belly, still not used to the sensation. The man came closer and stooped down. He grimaced as his knees popped, but his expression of wonder returned. "With child?" he asked her slowly, softly, in his odd French.

"Yes."

He smiled, and his dark eyes lit up. "May I touch?"

She nodded, and he held out his right hand. She placed it low on her belly. She felt his hand under hers and through her chemise: warm and soft, and exactly the same as her husband's hand.

Behind her, her William shifted in his sleep and moved closer to Duana.

In front of her, the William in her dream rested his hand on her belly. She smelled his clean skin, his hair. She saw hints of gray in the stubble on his face and fine lines around his eyes. Like her William, he was beautiful. She touched the awful scar on his bare chest and wondered who did that to him.

He looked away, seeming embarrassed.

She slid her fingers across the dark hair of his chest and felt the slow, strong beat of his heart. It comforted her, like listening to the ocean. He covered her hand with his. Still feeling for the baby to move, he closed his eyes.

"Girl," he told her softly, as if listening to something. “Good. Strong."

She could not imagine how he knew that, but she nodded anyway.

"Amelie," he said in French, and, "Aimile."

"Eimile? My child is to be named Eimile?"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes. He let go of her hand to toy with a lock of her hair. He seemed so tired. The tired that sleep did not help. 

"The hair is beautiful," he whispered in the candlelight, still speaking odd French in that flat English accent. He added sadly, "I miss you."

This William thought she was his woman, Duana realized. His Scully woman. In his world, some version of her existed for him. Or had. Perhaps his woman and child died, and that caused his sadness. To him, maybe she was the ghost.

Duana felt the baby move. He did too, because he looked at her wondrously. For several seconds, he seemed to stare directly into her soul. He said something Duana did not understand. What he wanted was clear though, and she did nothing to resist.

His hand slid higher on her abdomen. She felt this William's lips on hers, kissing her gently and, as her mouth opened, passionately. Suddenly he knew every inch of her, every secret. There was no politeness to his embrace; it was fire consuming tinder. He kissed her the way men should love women - boundless, naked, lawless. Duana felt a warm storm consuming her. Her husband did not kiss her like that. Her William was kind, gentle, careful to never frighten her. He never forgot himself. This William's kiss was intense and instinctive and frightening and she never wanted it to stop.

She had dreams like this lately.

"You are beautiful," he whispered with his lips brushing hers and his breath against her skin. "I love you. Always."

He pulled away before she did, leaving her uncertain and breathless. This was adultery, but committed in a dream with her own husband. Or at least, with her mate in some world. In some world, in some time, she was this man's woman. She had carried his child. He longed for her. Duana could not explain how she knew, but she was certain in his world, his woman longed for him, too.

"If you have need of me..." He spoke slowly in French, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Ever- Speak. Call. I will come."

This William looked past her. He watched her William as he slept and seemed to take note of the fresh scar on his shoulder. He touched his own bare right shoulder, which bore no scar. Duana wondered what it was like to find your other self in a dream.

Her husband put his hand on the side of her belly. He curled against her and made a contented sound deep in his throat as he slept.

The other William looked wistful as he stood.

"Thank you," he said, and she nodded yet again. She hoped, in his world, she was more eloquent.

He turned his head as if hearing a sound. She heard nothing.

He scanned the dim room again, looking at the canopied bed, the hearth, and the shutters open to the warm night. "I am in a dream, Scully," he said.

Duana assured him that was the case, and he stepped back and faded away.

*~*~*~*

For months Gwilym told himself men naturally healed more slowly as they grew older. The scar remained red, but he could roll his right shoulder and move his arm. However, if Gwilym tried to whittle a twig or tie a knot, he fumbled. If he persisted, the fumbling worsened and numbness spread from his fingertips upward until his right hand was useless.

Seated at his desk, he tried writing again, this time placing the quill in his right hand with his left. He could see his fingers but not make them cooperate.

A hand that could not hold a quill could not hold a sword. 

He heard the bed shift, and hurriedly put the quill and ink away. He straightened some books and parchments, and picked up the letter from London.

Duana made her way out of their bedchamber with a gait charitably called an amble but, in the last week, edging toward a waddle. She wore his bedrobe over her chemise but her feet were bare. The breeze drift in the open office window and the summer moon cast a pale, otherworldly glow.

Although he knew she would not obey, Gwilym called from his desk, "Go back to bed, Cariad. You are sleeping for at least two." 

"I slept for you and me both." She stretched before she maneuvered herself down on the sofa. "I am rested and would like to see something besides these walls."

She said it lightly, but he knew Duana grew restless. Gwilym could not perpetually invent reasons to keep her inside Aber Castle, nor could he continue to do nothing. She was obviously pregnant. His sole son was baseborn - at least, by Norman standards - but now his Christian wife carried a child. Gwilym should be shouting it from the roof, bragging to Llewelyn, prancing and scattering flowers.

To announce her pregnancy invited scrutiny, but to continue to hide Duana away invited more scrutiny. 

"You never came to bed," Duana said worriedly. "Is your shoulder hurting again? Have you slept at all?"

Without looking up from the letter he held, Gwilym nodded noncommittally. In truth, he had slept a few hours on the sofa but he found himself waking again and again to go to the window and look at the night sky. And not because his shoulder ached.

A moment passed. He heard hesitation in her voice as she said, "Yesterday evening, I saw a messenger arrive under the King's banner."

Gwilym glanced up. Apparently, his was not the only heart that stopped each time King John's standard bearer approached the castle gate.

He turned the parchment so she could see the writing. "Dafydd. The messenger brought a letter from Dafydd." 

"Oh," she said in the same falsely-calm voice.

Since he had gleaned all the information to be had from the letter, Gwilym left it on his desk and joined Duana on the sofa. He sat, and she lay with her legs across his lap and her bare toes to the empty hearth.

Gwilym rested his right hand on her belly. "How much longer?" 

Diana had been taller and wider through the hips, but Gwilym recalled her complaining twice as much as Duana and having half the trouble. Last week, he found spots of blood on the bed sheets. Aside from being frightened, Duana seemed fine, but the midwife sent Gwilym to the chapel to pray. Eventually, the midwife said all was well. All was not well obviously, but as long as the danger was to the baby and not to Duana, Gwilym's prayers to the Virgin were effective, if heretical. 

"About two months by my count," Duana answered. "Twelve weeks by your math."

"You are certain you carry a girl?"

She nodded, paused, and asked, "Are you relieved?"

He answered honestly. "I will be relieved once you are safely delivered of this child."

She took his hand and assured him, "I am fine. Tell me of David's news."

Not convinced, he toyed with her hand until he realized something. "You hemmed my bedrobe." He turned up the edge of the fabric, examining the neat stitches where she shortened the sleeve. She had shortened the lower hem as well. It would reach his knees. "You witch. There is borrowing and there is thieving. Get your own robe." 

"I am making you another." She said it as if he should have noticed. "Or we can share this one. You will look dignified with your knees and elbows hanging out. Tell me of David."

"I am not pleased." 

"Tell me of David, and promise to take me to the village in the morning, and I will see about pleasing you," she offered coyly. 

Gwilym sighed. "Dafydd has decided he will abandon his pursuit of the King's serving girls and join the Knights Templar, once he is allowed to leave Court." She looked puzzled, so he explained. "To be a full knight with the Templar monks as Father Leuan was, a man must be both chaste and unmarried. I was a secular knight but the rule still applied for the length of my service. It is a wonderful boyhood vision of chivalry until one reaches a certain age and discovers, as Leuan says, 'why a man might have need of a wife.’" 

"To sew bedrobes?"

Gwilym slid his hand down her belly and rested it in the warmth between her legs. "Clearly, to sew bedrobes. Dafydd has had this notion every six months or so since he was small. Gwen made him a tunic like mine for his eleventh birthday so he could dress up as a Templar and attack the Infidel sheep in the valley. It is in a chest somewhere." 

He glanced around as if he could not remember which chest, though the tunic was in the corner coffer. It was folded carefully with Gwilym’s own red and white Templar tunic, a doll that was his daughter's, and a heavy signet ring Diana once received. Gwilym would unlock the chest one day when he felt brave and tell Duana the story of each object, but not this morning. 

"You seldom speak of the Templars. How long did you ride with them?" 

"Far too long. After my father and Diana died, I took up the holy cause. I wanted to reclaim the Holy Land from the Infidels, as my uncle and father had. Eventually, I tired of fighting for other men's ideals. I will shed blood for peace, but I found no peace in killing men because they prayed to a God different from mine or to fatten the Pope's or the Knights' coffers." 

Duana was quiet so long he thought she fell back to sleep. Not wanting to disturb her, Gwilym sat watching the moonlight and listening to the soft silence. The candle on his desk marked the wiling away of the night. He looked down at his right hand. He watched the fingers rest against her leg as he told them to wiggle. 

To his surprise, Duana said softly, worriedly, "The King's messenger came, and you never came to bed. You kept reading the letter and I thought-"

He took her hand again. "Believe I will keep you and your child safe."

She nodded. 

"Do you know, dear wife," he said lightly, "Both Infidels and Druids believe men live again and again, each time reborn in a different time until they do what they are destined to do?"

Rather than being amused, she asked, "Do you suppose we knew each other before this life? Or our souls will meet again after this one?"

Gwilym rubbed her leg. "Perhaps. Who can say Heaven is as the Church claims."

"William, have you ever met a stranger and thought 'I know you. Did I dream you? Or are we acquainted from a time now out of memory?'"

"I cannot say I have." He let his hand roam up her leg, each caress pushing the hem of her chemise higher until his fingers brushed the warm curls at the junction of her thighs. "If you are well, I do know a pretty little soul with whom I want to reacquaint myself this week."

Duana chuckled and told him, "My lord, that is not my soul," as she sat up. 

Gwilym stood, and helped Duana to her feet. In the moonlight, her hair shimmered and her skin glowed. He traced his fingertips down her cheek and across her lips like a blind man seeing her by touch. He had never lost the sense of awe at her beauty or wonder that she chose him.

Instead of taking her to bed, Gwilym put his arms around her and rested his chin on her crown. Her palms were warm against his chest and her head rested trustingly on his heart.

As much as he cared for her, a narrow but deep ravine still divided his lips and his heart. Instead of trying to find words of love and reassurance, he instructed, "Tomorrow, you must practice writing."

Duana's head nodded.

"Tomorrow," Gwilym continued practically, as he held her, and as if talking to the marshal of his horses, "I will dictate a letter to Dafydd, and you will act as scribe. I will tell Dafydd my wife is with child. I am to have a daughter. He is to have another sister, and I am well pleased." He stroked her hair - something he did not do with the marshal of his horses. "All those things are true."

Her head nodded again, and her hand took his. "Afterward, take me to Aber Village," she reminded him, as she led him to their dark bedchamber. "Take me anywhere, before I am too big to do anything."

She untied the neck of her chemise. Gwilym helped her take it off. "That time is coming soon, I think," he said.

"Soon." With the nimble fingers he lacked, she untied the waist of his breeches and lay back on their soft bed. "But not yet."

*~*~*~*

"Word is, your wife is breeding."

Llewelyn seldom wasted breath with idle chatter, even as a boy. Today, the Prince of Wales appeared beside Gwilym and began mid-conversation, riding directly up to Aber Castle and ruining Gwilym's plan to leave Goliath at the gate and sneak in through the stables. 

Skipping polite salutations, Gwilym said, "Congratulate me, Llewel. We will be married nine months by harvest. The midwife predicts another son but Duana insists this baby is a girl."

"The King believes the baby may come sooner." Llewelyn rode close beside Gwilym. His knights followed, but stopped outside the castle to wait.

"The Norman King believes many things, and most of those things are wrong. You know I lack good sense with pretty women,” Gwilym quipped. “That first night, she got me drunk and seduced me. I am a mere Welsh lord, and she a lady of the idiot King’s court. My foot slipped. In the darkness, I mistook her for you. I swear it. Do not doubt my love for you, Llewel.”

Llewelyn continued to stare straight ahead as he rode forward.

A chill crept down Gwilym’s spine. 

“Llewel-”

“The message reached my court only hours ago,” The Prince’s throat convulsed as he swallowed. “King John’s knights have left London and should reach Wales soon. If Duana is with child, they have orders to take her back to London. By force, if necessary.”

Gwilym's heart beat faster. He had Goliath pick up his pace to remain alongside Llewelyn's young courser.

Llewelyn continued staring ahead, as if avoiding looking at Gwilym. 

“Take her by what right? This is ludicrous. She is my wife," Gwilym argued. "That makes her child mine, regardless of when it is born."

“You may have the marriage annulled-” 

“I will not. She is my wife and she carries my child.”

“She does not, Gwil,” Llewelyn said emptily. “Send Duana away. Say she is ill, and send her to an abbey. Once the child is born, say it died and send it away. She is young. She can give you other sons.”

Llewelyn stopped his horse in the inner bailey. Gwilym’s squire and a stable boy ran from the stable, but Gwilym waved them away. 

“I have no intention of sending Duana to London, or to a nunnery, or sending her child away.” Gwilym's face grew hot. “Are you so scared of the Normans you check for them beneath your bed each night? To Hell with King John. Under the law, this child is mine."

The Prince swallowed again. “Gwil, this child can inherit or be dowered with Gwynedd. Northern Wales and a host of ports on the Irish Sea. Marry the child to one of Alexander II’s children, and King John controls Wales and Ireland. I walked into a trap,” Llewelyn said in the same hollow voice. “My father-in-law schemed a child with his blood and your kingdom, and I cannot allow that. Either annul Duana or make her child vanish.” 

"I will do neither. Duana is my wife and her child is mine. Dafydd will inherit Gwynedd, and piss on King John. Piss on you, in fact, for letting the Normans geld you."

Llewelyn dismounted. He leaned his head on his horse's flank. 

Gwilym waited for the fight. He itched to reach for his sword. Llewelyn opened his mouth several times, started to speak, but closed it again.

A knot twisted in Gwilym’s gut. He did not think Duana would have lied, but Llewelyn’s demands made no sense otherwise. Gwilym dismounted, stepped close to Llewelyn, and asked, "Could this child be yours, Llewel?"

"Gwil, how can you ask that?" Llewelyn looked up and answered immediately, using the French word. "No."

“I say again, to Hell with the Norman King. John must have five-dozen bastards and, even if what he believes is true, he gains nothing by me claiming this one. I have an heir. Dafydd will inherit Gwynedd. Duana’s child-” 

Llewelyn’s lips moved if struggling to link breath with words. “He will not,” the Prince managed. “The message- Guto’s manservant came this morning. The King-”

"What?” Gwilym demanded.

Llewelyn met Gwilym’s eyes. “I- I thought I would tell you first. Myself.” The Prince looked away again.

"What of my Dafy, Llewel?" Gwilym asked hoarsely.

*~*~*~*

Duana’s temper got the better of her. She muttered a fine Welsh curse gleaned from her husband and sucked the drop of blood that formed at the tip of her finger. Her sewing needles shared her vengeful mood as she let out another of her dresses for her growing bulk. Her pronunciation must be improving, because one of the servants paled and crossed herself. 

William left her, the liar. Arrogant, cowardly, deceitful... He would hear of this when he returned. He could slink around the cellar and the stables, hiding like a kicked hound, or bring her trinkets as peace offerings, but she had her temper honed razor-sharp and ready for her husband's homecoming.

William relented this morning and said she could ride down to Aber Village with him if she was ready in time. He vanished before she could even get dressed. He would be full of justifications. He would say her mare could stumble and throw her, or she slowed him down or, his favorite: a lady should not be at market with a great belly. It did no good to argue the titles were his; by blood, Duana was equal to any peasant and thrilled at waddling through the vendors to haggle over cabbages and baking pans and spices. Lord William of Aber would look at her with those deep hazel eyes, as though he contemplated her soul, and do whatever he pleased, leaving her to sit and fume.

Duana pricked herself again and discovered she had run out of Welsh curses. She switched to French, which did not upset the servant. 

"How are the babies, my lady?" another young woman asked. She was Elan, Melvin's wife, half Melvin's age and twice his size. Gwen promoted Elan, formerly a kitchen maid, to serve as a ladies' maid for Duana. The girl wanted to learn but Elan's advanced pregnancy and Duana's reluctance to have Elan privy to her bedchamber hindered that. At the moment, Elan's primary role was filling silence.

"Awake," Duana replied. She did not want to discuss William's theory with Elan, though he or Sir Melvin obviously had. In all likelihood, William had the entire castle thinking his wife a harlot.

Twins. That was why Duana was so big, according to William. Because she was to have twins by him. William persisted with the insulting idea, listening to her belly and trying to count the heartbeats. Duana explained what everyone knew. A woman must be with two different men in the same night to have two children. She had presented her evidence: a wife who is only with her husband had one child at a time, but an unfaithful wife might have more. 

"What of one man twice in one night?" he had asked, and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Duana had sighed and repeated herself. William listened each time she explained. He nodded, and continued suggesting two names instead of one until she lost her temper. She was to have one child, a little girl; she was certain. Duana thought he came to his senses but this morning he again referred to her as a party of three.

"What about Gwilym and Gwendolyn for a boy and a girl? Or Donn and Dafydd?" Elan rubbed her own belly. "My husband says it is good for twins to be named alike."

Duana decided William was correct about one thing. Melvin's wife was a cross between a girl and a chicken, having inherited the hen's brains but breasts enough for two women. She knew it was her own foul temper, but Duana contemplated some errand to send Elan on. Before she could, the clatter of hooves rose from the bailey. 

As Duana hurried as fast as possible down the staircase, young Elan called after her, "You are eager to see your husband, my lady?" 

'Eager' was such a small, misleading word. William could teach her a Welsh term meaning 'so looking forward to your return I could stick you with pins, dear husband.' Alternately, 'you will need your new robe to warm you on the sofa, which is where you are welcome until this child reaches majority because you left me with that fool Elan while you rode off on glorious adventures.' 

*~*~*~*

At first, Duana did not realize what was wrong, only that something was. William spoke with Prince Llewelyn, who Duana had not seen since she left London. 

Initially, she thought William might be drunk - at midday - though she seldom saw him tipsy in a land where mead and beer and strong wine were poured instead of water. William looked pale. He stumbled as he stepped toward Prince Llewelyn. Ill, she thought. Or injured. William tried to keep it from her, but his shoulder had not healed properly. If someone attacked William, she did not know how well he could wield a blade. 

For a few seconds, William stared at Prince Llewelyn, seeming dazed. As Duana stood in the doorway, William shoved Llewelyn. William shoved the Prince again, like a boy provoking a fight. Llewelyn said something Duana could not hear, and William hit him hard enough to send Llewelyn sprawling back into the bailey muck.

Chickens and geese squawked and scattered. The servant at the woodpile stopped chopping, his axe still raised. Gwilym's squire scurried from the stable, and Llewelyn's and William's knights came running and riding. 

The dogs arrived to bark frantically and get in the way. As Llewelyn's knights hurriedly dismounted, Gwilym's men gathered around. Too many men had their hand on the hilt of their sword.

William cursed Llewelyn and dared the Prince to get up again. 

"Mary, mother of God!" Duana cupped her hands over her mouth. Men hanged for far less than striking their liege lord. "Have mercy."

The knights seemed unsure what to do. Llewelyn lay bleeding in the bailey, but they had no orders from either their prince or the general they followed in battle. They decided to let William and Llewelyn fight unless either said otherwise.

Llewelyn sat up and wiped the blood from his nose. He slumped forward as William ranted at him. William told Llewelyn to get up so he could hit him again. Llewelyn did not, so William went down after him. As they scuffled, Duana saw William fumble at his waist for his dagger. 

"Stop!" She screamed, but no one listened to her.

Even more knights arrived. Servants streamed into the inner bailey at the raised voices. Amid the hysterical dogs, Melvin managed to pull William off Prince Llewelyn, and to get everyone's knights to back away.

The men from the stable, the knights, the servants - Duana heard them all talking among themselves. Some cried, but she could not understand why. Gwen appeared from the kitchens. Her broad face crumbled, and tears cut through the flour on her cheeks. Father John arrived. The priest intervened between William and Prince Llewelyn, holding William back by one arm as Melvin held the other. William continued to struggle. 

"You swore he would not be harmed," William shouted. "He is my son!"

Duana put her hands to her mouth again. 

Llewelyn's knights knelt beside the Prince, offering aid and seeking orders. Llewelyn sat in the dirt and ignored them. Straw clung to his hair, and his cloak had been torn off. Llewelyn must have fought back, because William's cheekbone bled.

"You ordered me to take the castle," William yelled at Llewelyn hoarsely, as Father John, Melvin, and two knights dragged him back. "You liar!"

Llewelyn, again, did nothing. 

Duana stood outside the door to the great hall as if her feet had rooted there. No one noticed her, including her husband.

"Did King John hang your son?" William yelled from the great hall. "Is your Guto dead too?"

At Melvin's order, the castle guards herded William's servants away from the bailey. The Prince's knights formed a circle around Llewelyn, facing away, protecting him.

From his seat in the muck, Prince Llewelyn shook his head. He covered his bloody face with his hands. 

Duana was soon to learn Gruffydd - Llewelyn's oldest baseborn son and the heir to Wales - still lived. When King John demanded hostages the previous spring, Gruffydd's presence soothed the Welsh families more than Llewelyn's assurances. Gruffydd merely visited his stepmother’s father the King, and took twenty-eight Welsh noblemen's sons as companions. The boys would be treated and educated properly at London court because they accompanied the future Prince of Wales. 

The King spared the Prince’s son the gallows, according to Gruffydd's manservant, who, not knowing what else to do, had fled to bring Llewelyn the news. No one knew where Gruffydd was imprisoned nor what brutality the King's jailors inflicted. In truth, the servant could not swear Gruffydd still lived - only that he had not seen Gruffydd's body hang with the other twenty-eight boys.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym would vomit. This nightmare was so awful he would be sick before he awakened. He would either vomit or suffocate, or do both at once.

He knew Duana was there, and felt her cradle her head against her belly. He lay curled on the floor of their bedchamber like a child, unseeing. A demon sat on his chest, keeping him from drawing a deep breath. For a time, Leuan and Gwen tried to comfort him, but Duana ordered them away. 

In his mind, Gwilym called the King and Llewelyn whore's sons and every foul name he knew. He told himself Llewelyn ordered Gwilym to take the damn castle in Carmarthen, and Carmarthen Castle was Llewelyn's according to the Magna Carta. King John had no cause to say Wales rebelled. No rightful king hung children. Finally, the logical arguments fell away and there remained the aching truth. There was no mistake. His son was dead.

He closed his eyes and listened to Duana's heartbeat.

Duana petted his hair for hours. Wet drops fell on his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw tears streaming down her face and meeting at her chin. Gwilym could not cry. He felt empty, as though he had been bled or purged to death. If he was dead though, and this was Hell, Duana would not be with him.

Gwilym stood and went to the window of their bedchamber. Perversely, the sun began to set on a lovely summer day and the Irish Sea looked calm. In his office, he saw firewood laid in the hearth and a wide-eyed servant standing by to light it. Bread and cheese and wine from the kitchen sat on his desk, though Gwilym could not imagine ever eating again. Also on his desk, he saw the ledger and a stack of books and a letter from a dead boy.

Gwilym told the servant to get out. The man fled to the hall to join the other silent, waiting inhabitants of the castle. 

From the office window, Gwilym looked down at the bailey. Llewelyn and his knights sat on their mounts, waiting. Merfyn and his men waited as well. Duana's gray mare was saddled and ready. Soon, Gwilym knew, Llewelyn would order Merfyn to forcibly take Duana from Aber Castle. Merfyn would likely refuse, and so Merfyn and his knights would likely die. 

Duana remained on the floor beside their bed. She watched with red-rimmed eyes as Gwilym unlocked the coffer and pushed the old shirts aside. He found the pouch, and fingers fumbling, he untied the drawstring and shook out the sooty man's ring. It remained as Gwilym found it after the fire that killed Diana, but under the soot he knew were the royal lions of King John. Without speaking, Gwilym returned the ring to its pouch and slipped the pouch into his pocket. 

Next, he found his old white Templar tunic in the coffer, with the red cross on the front assuring him safe passage. He lifted the second, smaller tunic, and fought the urge to press his face into it and cry.

Duana was on her feet, watching him.

"Boy," Gwilym shouted, not able to remember his squire's name. 

A teenage boy scurried in from the hallway.

"Saddle my horse. Bring my sword and armor," Gwilym ordered. 

*~*~*~*

Leuan had never doubted, should the boy Llwynog live to become the man Gwilym, he would be worthy of his father's name and as formidable a soldier and cunning a ruler as Charlemagne or Henry Plantagenet. The question had been whether Llwynog would survive boyhood. 

Little Llwynog questioned everything. Birds could fly, so why could he not, Llwynog demanded the August of his sixth year, having jumped from the stable roof and mercifully landed in soft hay. Leuan had explained the trick to flying was to aim for the ground and miss, and Llwynog seldom missed anything except his lessons. That omen foretold how the next three decades would pass: a never-ending battle to keep the Old Lord’s son alive and focused on tasks worthy of a nobleman instead of strange notions which could get him burned, beheaded, drawn and quartered, or hanged. 

The priest blamed the pain in his knees on hours spent in prayer seeking guidance on how best to direct a reckless, youthful 'Gwilym,' as he insisted on being called from age nine on. While the Old Lord joined his brother Rhonald's cause in the Holy Land, Leuan remained to oversee the boy's education and safety. Father Leuan was either to be blamed or congratulated for his tutelage. 

He had certainly overseen. Gwilym explored caves and battled imaginary dragons and tried his best to sneak out at night to see the Druid's ceremonies. At eleven, he bloodied Llewelyn's nose in a squabble over a borrowed and lost ball, bringing Llewelyn's grandfather - then the ruler of Wales - to Aber Castle for an explanation. To Gwilym, the Church doctrine was questionable rather than dictated by God, and sins to be debated rather than avoided or repented.

All too soon came the discovery of girls. Serving girls, peasant girls, and a pretty, pregnant wench named Diana who looked to be trouble. Gwilym could not be dissuaded, though. Father Leuan had christened both of Gwilym's children himself, and said the funeral mass for their mother's soul. He performed last rites for Gwilym's father, and he had married Gwilym to Lady Duana. Leuan had no sons, but he had the fortune to help raise a brilliant, brave boy into a man he proudly called his friend, even when he wanted to take a switch to the backside of Gwilym’s breeches.

Gwilym emerged from the alchemist's hut in his armor and Templar tunic, and Leuan momentarily thought the Old Lord had returned to life. No one but the Old Lord knew who Gwilym's mother had been, but there was no question of his sire. The set of the jaw was the same, the frightening intensity of the gaze: Gwilym was his father's son.

Earlier, Gwilym instructed Leuan to find his own Templar tunic and cloak, and meet him in the next valley. Gwilym said nothing of the young Dafydd’s death or of Llewelyn and his knights in the bailey, waiting to take Lady Duana. 

Leuan had obeyed. As he reached the village, he looked up and saw Llewelyn and his knights leaving Aber Castle. Leuan assumed Lady Duana was with them. 

Lady Duana's mare stood outside the alchemist's hut, beside Goliath. As Leuan rode closer, he saw Duana in the doorway wearing Dafydd's old Templar tunic. Her head was uncovered, and her auburn hair hung in a long, thick braid.

The old fear for Gwilym brewed in Leuan's belly. He knew the stakes, if not the plan, and he knew Gwilym had chosen a side. 

Gwilym fumbled with a pair of scissors before giving them to Duana to lop off her waist-length braid. 

Inside the hut, Llangly put some mixture on her cropped hair turning it a dark, dull brown. Leuan sat on a rickety stool and watched Gwilym toy with the long braid. Gwilym did not seem to understand he could not reattach it later. According to superstition, the hair should be burned before a witch used it to put a spell on Lady Duana, but Leuan could not bring himself to take it from Gwilym and throw it into the hearth. 

The alchemist cleared his throat. Gwilym nodded, and Llangly turned his attention to measuring, pounding, and mixing ingredients from the cobwebbed jars lining the shelves.

Duana removed the towel from her hair, and the transformation was complete. Lady Duana and Lord Gwilym vanished, and two Knights Templar emerged: one tall and slim, and one younger with brown hair and a decided thickening through the middle.

"Go outside, both of you," Gwilym ordered Duana and Leuan, which was the first time he spoke since Leuan arrived. 

Duana untied her mare and led her alongside a stump. Leuan held the bridle so the mare would not bolt, though he thought that unlikely. Still, he made sure Duana was safely in the sidesaddle before turning his attention to his own mount. Leuan's horse was less cooperative, unaccustomed to being ridden as of late. Leuan danced in circles with one foot in his stirrup and one on the ground, for several seconds. He swung up, and realized no one had told him the plan or his part in it.

As twilight gathered, Gwilym stepped from the hut. He placed a small, wrapped package in his saddle bag. Without a word, he helped Duana dismount from her mare. He led Goliath to the stump and guided Duana carefully onto his horse. Duana's mare, Gwilym tied to a tree limb. Gwilym swung into the saddle behind Duana, and gave her the reins. 

Duana asked about her mare, and Gwilym told her, "She remains here." He wrapped his arms around Duana's waist and rested his forehead for a moment on her shoulder. "West. St. Mary's Abbey is west from here. Goliath knows the way."

Leuan saw Duana look at her mare. He surmised Gwilym was buying the alchemist's help and silence, but the entire hovel - Llangly included - was not worth a tenth that pretty mare. 

St. Mary's was a Cistercian Abbey and a port for the Templar Knights' fleet of ships. Leuan's green Templar robes announced him as a priest of the sacred order, never to be challenged.

That must be Gwilym's plan: have Leuan hide Duana among the monks until the baby came, say the baby died, and send it far beyond anywhere the Norman King could find it. When the King's soldiers reached Aber Castle, they would find knights and servants who knew their Lord and Lady went to the church with their priest to grieve the loss of Dafydd, and never returned. They went on a pilgrimage, or on Crusade. Prince Llewelyn could swear the same. Should the soldiers search the abbey, they would find powerful monks who regarded King John as lower than a leper and could honestly say three Templars stayed in their abbey: a knight, a squire, and the old priest of Aber.

It was a poor plan, in a priest's opinion.

Leuan looked, not at the mare, but to Aber. He was not truly a knight. He served God and yet guarded the old mysteries, like his father and grandfather. He fed the poor and tended the sick and listened too attentively to a certain Manx window's confessions. He yearned, as he had many times, for a simpler life he was not destined to have, and to tell Gwilym to stop baiting dragons he could not possibly slay.

"Leave my son only when he no longer has need of you," the Old Lord has commanded, so long ago the year and season had fallen from memory.

Father Leuan squared his shoulders and brought his ill-mannered horse alongside Gwilym's big destrier.

Duana clucked twice to Goliath, gave him a determined kick, and was rewarded with a hesitant trot. Leuan guided his horse after her, but if the trot got any slower it would be a walk. They would reach St. Mary's by harvest instead of within a few hours. Gwilym kept one hand around Duana's middle, and his eyes looked ahead at nothing.

Leuan heard a smart slap as the leather reins met with the horse's neck, indicating Duana meant business, and a snort as the black horse acquiesced into a canter. Two hours later, they had reached the Abbey.

*~*~*~* 

The night sky looked farther away, as though God in Heaven had left him. The world felt muffled and distant, and Gwilym had the odd sense of watching everything from outside his body. He understood what Llewelyn felt after Tang died. Gwilym lived out of habit and utility. If breathing had required intent, his lungs would have stopped. 

Duana did as he told her, and Leuan followed them through the Abbey's gates. 

Gwilym had visited St. Mary's Abbey: dined with the Abbott, prayed with the monks, slept in the noblemen's guest house. Now he passed the church and priory house and cloisters without seeing them. He rode past the animal sheds without hearing the cows and goats, and the garden without smelling the rich soil. 

The stables sat in the far corner, comfortingly remote and silent except for the horses bedded down for the night.

Gwilym could not risk taking Duana inside the priory house. She passed for a teenage boy at a glance or on a horse, but not at close inspection. Instead, Gwilym sent Father Leuan with money to deal with the Abbot while he remained in the stable with Duana. He focused on unsaddling and grooming Goliath so he would not be expected to converse.

Leuan sent a boy out with a basket of bread and cheese, a bottle of wine, and several of the monks' unbleached wool blankets. Duana spread the blankets over clean, loose straw in an empty stall, creating a bed. The wine and food went untouched.

Even the silence felt remote. 

Gwilym’s saddlebag held a letter from a dead boy, an old signet ring, and a little package of poison. He had his great-grandfather’s sword, his own dagger, and his own battle-scarred armor. Money, Templar robes, and a horse bred and trained for war. In the next stall, his pregnant wife sat with her back to the wall and looked at nothing. A single candle burned and, far down the building, the moonlight made a silver puddle through the open stable doorway.

"I am sorry about your mare." Gwilym's voice creaked from disuse. "I know you are fond of her."

Duana nodded vaguely, possibly agreeing she was fond of the mare.

Gwilym left Goliath and joined Duana in the next stall. "I offered money but the alchemist wanted a horse. He wants to see the stone circles in the south," he said stiltedly. “The ones I told you of.”

Duana had removed the Templar tunic and breeches. Underneath, she still wore a woman's chemise. She rested one hand on her belly and looked at him sadly.

He recognized she grieved, and she was frightened for herself and her child. She was fearful of and for Gwilym, even. But her emotions were waves never reaching him. 

Nothing reached him tonight. Not fear, not light, not love, not even God. 

His heavy chainmail hauberk and hood were in a saddle bag, and his sword and scabbard and helmet rested against the wall. As he began to fumble with the straps fastening his gauntlets, Duana got up and came to help. Gwilym offered her the underside of each wrist in turn, and stood still as she bent down to unfasten his leg armor. He lifted his arms to let her unfasten the straps of his breastplate. He did not ask how she knew about armor; like Duana’s skill with a dagger, that knowledge must harken from a part of her life he had not shared.

He had known Duana barely half a year and spent too much of that time away at war. He had a son for fourteen years, a daughter for nine. His father for six and twenty years. None of that was enough. As he counted his losses, an angry, dangerous ache formed in his chest. He pressed the thoughts out of his mind. He focused his energy on not thinking, and time itself slowed.

Gwilym did not know what he wanted, except not to risk pain returning.

Amidst the distant, ruined world, the tiniest details caught his attention as Duana undressed him. He noticed the soft, pink dip at the center of Duana's upper lip, and how her earlobe curved softly to connect to her jaw. In the candlelight, he saw the faint, delicate hair on her skin, and the precious pulse at her throat.

Instinctively, he stepped toward the makeshift bed. Duana followed him. There were no sweet words or jokes; he could not manage the gentleness or the rhythm of them. He stripped off her chemise and pulled her down onto the blankets with him.

One last time, he told himself. One last time, he wanted acceptance, and ecstasy, and then to feel nothing. 

Her skin was warm and soft, and tasted like the sea. The candle flickered. The quiet stable smelled of horses and hay. Nearby, Goliath sighed. Gwilym had always been gentle with Duana and careful to make lovemaking nice for her. Now he could only be selfish. He had treated whores with more romantic pretense than his pregnant wife. 

"What do I do?" she asked uncertainly. This was not their soft bed in Aber where he could still be atop her without crushing her belly.

"On your knees." 

Duana already knelt. She looked perplexed. 

"On your hands and knees," he clarified. "Turn around." 

If he had the energy, he would have been ashamed. To compound that, rather than telling him it was a sin to lie as animals did, Duana obeyed. 

Gwilym traced the vertebra of her backbone as if in a trance. He covered her, still not feeling anything except the physical need. He heard her cry out, but he hushed her, caressing her back absently. He had her shift so he could penetrate deeper - slowly and deeply, until pain began to mingle with pleasure. Harder. Punishingly hard, blocking out every other sensation. He pushed her shoulders down, having her submit further. Open her legs wider. Release came. His mind emptied into her body, and living - for a few seconds, at least – became bearable.

Afterward, he lay naked on the rough blanket and looked through her. Duana did not touch him, nor speak. She got up awkwardly and found her chemise. After she left, Gwilym remained on his side and stared at the place where she had been. Nothing remained inside his mind, nor heart. He was a shell.

He must ensure Duana was safe. Ensure her child was safe. Remove the scourge of King John from the land. Gwilym had seen the King's Court in London. He knew the castle's weaknesses. He knew the way and route royal processions traveled. He knew the weaknesses of King John's men and mind, and Gwilym was a very good solider. The King would die. 

Then, Gwilym could rest. 

He felt one of the monks' blankets cover him. Duana's warm hand rested on his bare shoulder like a shield protecting him. 

In the end, her offered hand comforted him more than taking pleasure from her body. Women's bodies were cheap but a woman's love far more precious.

Gwilym knew - as much as any thought or emotion could reach him - she loved him. “I am sorry,” he said in a rusty voice, a panacea apology. 

“So am I.” 

“Have I hurt the baby?” That had not been his intent, and he did not need to ask if he had hurt her.

"We will be fine. Sleep," Duana's voice told him softly, so he did. 

He looked forward to the time he could sleep forever.

*~*~*~*

The perversely idyllic summer night crept into Gwilym's dream. Except in his dream, the horrible night had become early morning in a high meadow. The sunrise bled orange and scarlet across the sky, and icy mist clung to the surface of a vast, calm lake. A killing frost had covered the lush green grass.

Gwilym did not recognize the lake or the purple mountains around it. He knew every peak and valley and stream in his kingdom. This place was not in Gwynedd. And not in Wales. This was not a land he recalled ever visiting, yet he felt an odd familiarity.

He stood at the edge of the lake. Cold wind blew his hair and prickled his skin. He wore armor and a sword, and he held Goliath's reins. Aside from that, he had nothing. He felt that too: the emptiness left after the pain of loss grew numb. To carry such a dead expanse inside him now, he must have once had so much, loved so deeply.

Gwilym studied the landscape. He found no explanation as to what led him so high into the mountains, nor why he felt the need to linger. He belonged nowhere and to no one. Still, he glanced down at the newly-frozen grass as if something precious might have fallen from his pocket.

His horse was saddled and ready for war. A flock of hurried, honking geese passed overhead. Gwilym sensed the pull of necessity, the pressure of time passing. Of winter approaching. As much as he wanted to remain in this place, he must go.

He looked over his shoulder. A road led away from the lake, wandered through the mountains and wove out of sight. For the rest of the world, a long summer lingered. Here, the white on the mountaintops already crept downward. Wherever he was, soon the lake would freeze and the valleys would fill with snow.

He must go. 

As he turned to leave, far across the lake he spotted a woman wearing a long white chemise. He saw no house from which she might have emerged or an escort or any explanation for her presence on the opposite shore. She did not carry water. She did not bathe. She merely stood, seemingly unafraid and immune to the cold.

Wind pushed the fabric against her body and whipped her auburn hair. Gwilym could not make out her face, yet he knew she was beautiful. He sensed it. He knew how her skin would smell and her mouth would taste. As he studied her, he felt the woman watching him in return. An odd, tingling sensation began at the base of his skull and spread downward. He knew her: the distant figure in the mist. She pulled at him like the tide and guided him like the North Star. 

Gwilym could not reach her. He had no boat and, even braving whatever monsters lurked in the depths of the lake, he doubted he could swim so far in such cold water. He saw no navigable path through the rushes around the lake. She was there, though - with the sunrise and the mountains to her back - like Venus in the eastern sky. 

He must go.

He knew her, and he knew she waited for him: in his dreams, in the distance, beyond the edge of his conscious mind. He belonged, not to this place, but to her. Gwilym understood for the first time what Duana said about being acquainted with someone from a time out of memory.

*~*~*~* 

Dawn approached but God had not yet pulled back the black bed curtains from the world. No guiding stars shone in the dark sky, but Gwilym knew they remained, as deep inside him a faint light remained. 

He felt as though someone prayed for his soul, but he wished they would stop and let him be damned.

The monks' main alter rivaled the throne of God, at least to the unimaginative soul. Paint and gold leaf clothed the statues of Christ and The Virgin, and richly-embroidered fabric covered the high alter. In the dim church, the delicate choir screen rose impossibly high. The figures on the dark stained-glass windows watched Gwilym impassively. The midnight and pre-dawn prayer had been said, and the monks returned to the priory house. One Templar monk remained kneeling in silent prayer. Gwilym knelt with Father Leuan for a time, saying the familiar prayers, but found no comfort in them.

Eventually, Gwilym left the alter for a part of the church with no gilt nor statues nor draped velvet. In the crypt, the arches were low and the columns thick, bracing the foundation of the glorious church above. The alter was a single cross on a stone table flanked by candles. The air smelled musty and felt cool, like the earth.

Candlelight played over the low tombs. A stone effigy of a tall, slim Templar knight topped the newest tomb, but the oldest tomb was unadorned. His great grandfather, as a pagan, rested in a simple stone box.

Gwilym knelt at the alter and contemplated his father's effigy. 

He thought of Duana's words about how much his father must have loved Gwen to bring Gwilym, as a small boy, to her. While it was a happy tale, it was not likely an entirely truthful one. Gwilym wondered, as he had many times, who his mother had been and why his father took that secret to his grave. Gwilym wondered who he truly was - a noble bastard, a scholar and a seeker with a sword, a Christian who allowed Druid ceremonies. A man who questioned God and defied the King for the sake of a woman. Despite Leuan's and his father's insistence, he did not belong in this world. He could not blindly accept the will of any man and say it was God's intent. Someone was wrong. Either Gwilym, or the Church, or the King.

That made him a traitor and a heretic, among other things.

As dawn approached, Gwilym heard footsteps behind him. It could have been one of the monks or a servant or Father Leuan, but he knew it was not. 

Duana’s footfalls stopped at the crypt's entrance, as if not wanting to interrupt, until Gwilym looked back and gestured for her to join him. She wore men's breeches and Dafydd's old Templar robe, and looked wholly unconvincing as a teenage boy. She did not kneel, but stood beside him.

"Is this your father's tomb?"

"And his father and his father's father," Gwilym answered quietly. "Now Dafydd's body will rest here, as will mine." He swallowed. "Souls do not suffer death, but after death pass from one to another."

"Julius Caesar sat that of the Celts. Like the Vikings, the Celtic warriors were so fierce because they did not fear death."

He looked up at her. "How do you know?" 

"I know many things," she answered enigmatically. 

He resumed looking at the tomb. "Do you?"

"I know you are a good man, William of Aber."

He smirked. 

"I know you do not fear death, but it is not your time to die," she said. "It only feels like it tonight. I have felt it and, like winter, it passes. You will see them again in Heaven. All the loved ones you have lost. But not yet."

"That is what you came to tell me?"

"I came to tell you Father Leuan said the monks want to sail at dawn."

Gwilym wiped his hands over his face tiredly and got to his feet. She was right. For now, it was time to leave the dead. 

Duana reached for his hand out of habit but, as if remembering her role, quickly let go.

He took her hand and let her lead him out of the crypt and into the summer night. The grass was damp. Waves broke in the distance. A few figures moved through the low mist, as unrecognizable to Gwilym as he was to them. The moon looked huge and close as it came to rest beyond the Irish Sea. 

"There are other worlds out there." His words to Duana sounded soft in the darkness. "Worlds we know nothing of and knowing nothing of the King."

"They are not our worlds, William." Duana was always the voice of reason. "This is our world."

He wanted them to be. He wanted away from this land where kings killed boys and abused women for sport, and where his wife could not keep her child.

"They are there, though," he answered, needing to believe.

Once they were inside the stable, she asked, "When the ship sails, will you be aboard with me?"

"Father Leuan will accompany you," he answered evasively. "I do not care for boats."

Goliath was awake, and turned his ears forward, toward Gwilym. 

"Will you remain in Aber?" 

Gwilym opened his horse's stall. "I think it best you not know my plans. You will be safe, and I will come for you, if I can, when I can."

Her eyes glanced at his armor piled in the straw, then at his face. "William, you cannot raise your sword against the King."

"I can. My arm is fine. My grip is clumsy, that is all." He spoke before he realized that was not what she meant. "I will not raise my sword against the King, but I am not going with you and Leuan, nor remaining in Aber. I have a promise to keep."

As he saddled Goliath, Gwilym felt her gaze boring into his back. 

"Send me to the King," she said. "I can still ride. Or send me by ship. Regardless of his lust, he will not endanger this child. For a few more months, I would be safe. Sending me to London would garner you and Prince Llewelyn royal favor and-"

Gwilym opened his mouth to say 'piss on royal favor,' but did not get the chance.

"-I know the herbs to give him. Give me the poison you have in your saddlebag, even. No one would suspect me and no one would want me or this child once the King is dead," she said. 

He stopped fastening his saddle girth and looked at her. His pretty, pregnant wife looked back at him determinedly.

"A dagger, the royal guards would take from me," she said practically. "But, add honey and brandywine, and men drink anything a woman puts in a cup of tea. He killed David. Let me do this."

Gwilym thought many things, but said, "I cannot ask that of you."

"William, I release you from your promise. Send me to the King," she repeated. "I have cost you a son. You will never look at me and not think that. Why lay down your life for the sake of a woman you resent and a child fathered by the man who hung your son?"

He knew she tried to anger him, but he lacked tinder inside him to catch the spark. Gwilym merely looked at her.

Switching tactics, she tried desperately, "I have changed my mind. I will not say this child is yours. In fact, I want a divorce."

"Petition the Bishop from the Templar’s ship, Cariad," he suggested sarcastically. "Tell him our marriage was never consummated - nightly, as of late, and sometimes twice on rainy Saturdays."

"If I am not your wife, and this is not your child, why-"

"You will not out-maneuver me, Duana," he interrupted sternly. "You are my wife, and this is my child, and I have made a promise. Nor am I quarreling with you over which of us get to commit high treason. I am a Celt. I am not afraid to die." 

She crossed her arms. "I am a Celt as well, and I am afraid of you dying."

"Then I will never die," he said flippantly, to appease her. He finished with Goliath and reached for his breastplate. He fitted the armor over his head, squared it on his shoulders, and looked to Duana to fasten the leather straps beneath his arms.

Duana stood a few feet from where he had last seen her, now holding out his sword, sheathed, scabbard-first to him. "Swear it," she commanded.

"I swear I will not raise my sword against the King," he repeated irritably. "Put that down and fasten these straps."

Ignoring his order, she repeated, "Swear it. William, I need you. Whatever your plan to protect me, to protect this child... If I cannot dissuade you, swear you will not die, and you will always come for me."

She continued to hold out the old Viking sword. Norman knights used shorter, lighter weapons, but the Viking sword had served the men in Gwilym’s family since before William the Conqueror crossed the English Channel. Like Duana, the sword bent, but it did not break.

Duana seemed as determined Gwilym live as an enemy would he die. He put his hand on the sword's scabbard and to pacify her, promised, "I swear it." 

To his surprise, Duana relinquished the sword and helped him don his armor, as if she believed him. 

*~*~*~*

His plan had a flaw, a rare event for Gwilym. Gwilym had underestimated the loyalty and bravery of the abbot along with the guile of an aging Templar monk and an Irish mason's daughter.

Even at sword point, the monks of St. Mary's said Father Leuan and a Templar squire boarded a ship three months past. On crusade likely, though no record of the ship's name and destination had been kept. No one could recall the name of the captain or anything relevant; a wave of convenient amnesia had passed over the abbey. As had the King's knights. Regardless of Gwilym’s pleas or threats, the monks’ response remained the same. They said exactly what Gwilym had instructed them to say.

Leuan had hidden Duana so well Gwilym could not find her. Gwilym reasoned, should he be caught and tortured in England, if Gwilym did not know Duana's location, he could not disclose it. So he gave Leuan his signet ring and enough gold and Templar credit to take Duana wherever Leuan thought necessary. Gwilym had made the abbot swear to deny ever seeing Duana. Unfortunately, the abbot denied seeing her to Gwilym, as well. 

Gwilym racked his brain. Ships sailed from St. Mary's for Ireland, for England and France and Spain, and farther abroad. But these were not truly crusaders. Father Leuan disliked anything more adventurous than a hot bath, and Duana would not have been able to travel for long. She must be close but well-hidden in a place Gwilym, but not the King's knights, would think to look. 

She would not be in Dublin, even with its dozens of Cistercian Abbeys and Templar strongholds, because that was too obvious. Ireland had more abbeys and nunneries than a teenager had pimples, but none familiar to Gwilym. Traveling to England was cunning but too risky; sailing for France was too long and treacherous a journey for a woman so pregnant and a priest so timid.

Gwilym could not ride from town to town, castle to castle, asking after his wife or a squire who had miraculously given birth. But Leuan and Duana would have known Gwilym could not hunt blindly.

He sat astride Goliath at St. Mary’s port in Wales and looked west across the Irish Sea, toward Dublin. If he were Father Leuan, where would he hide a pregnant Celtic woman from the English King? 

Gwilym turned his head, looking directly north from where he had last seen Duana. He would hide her in plain sight, on her husband’s own land and among the Celts. The last of the pure Celts. 

Named for a pagan sea god, the Isle of Man had two castles, one abbey, and a deep hatred for King John. Like Gwilym's father, Leuan spoke Manx, the Gaelic language of the island. Gwilym, however, owned the Isle of Man roughly the same way the King owned the ravens in The Tower or the swans in The Thames. His vassals on the isolated island supplied knights and soldiers if necessary, but did not extend invitations for outsiders to visit.

"Anger nor examine Druids, dragons, nor Vikings needlessly," had been his father's advice. Druids and Vikings the island had plenty; Gwilym could not speak to the dragons’ presence. 

According to legend, like Avalon, mist concealed the Isle of Man from unwanted intruders. Fairies lived there. Ghostly dogs roamed Peele Castle, and shape-shifting water goblins lived in the streams. Father said King Arthur once conquered the island, and for Gwilym to collect the rents and taxes but otherwise steer clear of it.

Even the Templars shared that belief. It took half a purse of coins to convince a captain to sail to the lone island and another half a purse to get him to wait.

Unlike in the civilized world, the abbey's gates did not open automatically to Gwilym's Templar robes. The abbot who shuffled to the locked gate of Rushen Abbey kept his dark cowl pulled over his face. Either the abbot spoke no Welsh or was unwilling to lower himself to do so. On horseback, Gwilym could not see the abbot’s expression as Gwilym asked in French after a priest named 'John' and young man named 'Scully.'

"Perhaps," was the old man's cautious response, also in French. "Perhaps not. Put aside your sword; this is holy ground."

"Father, I have seen my fill of death," Gwilym called back. Goliath fidgeted, tossing his head and stamping his feet. "I have ridden across England and Wales, spent far too long on a boat, and I want to see my people. Are they here?"

"We do not care for the Saeson - for the Saxon or Norman outsiders here. Who asks for 'Scully'?"

Gwilym dismounted and stepped close to the tall gate. "William," he said through the bars. "I am Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. This is my land." 

"This is the Christian God's land, and the Old Gods’ before him. I do not see a Welsh lord," the abbot said skeptically. "I see a monk of the Knights Templar. Show me your signet ring, my lord," 

"I do not have my ring. It is with my priest, and my priest is with Scully, my squire. Scully is small, with brown hair cut to the chin. Fair skin and blue eyes. He was ill about..." Gwilym paused to count, "One month past, or perhaps more recently. He is my squire, and the man with her is an old Templar priest named 'John'. He is the priest of Aber and my friend." 

The abbot lowered his hood, revealing the bearded face of a man who had seen many winters. Switching to easy Welsh, the abbot asked, "Tell me of this 'Scully,' Lord Gwilym."

"My squire is the child of Scully the Mason, of Dublin, and dear to me."

"I am sure Scully is equally devoted to you, my lord."

Gwilym hesitated, taking the abbot's measure. "I seek my wife, father. She is Duana of Aber, the Lady of Gwynedd. She was with child." 

"The King's knights came several months ago," the abbot said. "They too asked after Lady Duana of Gwynedd. They were most insistent."

Gwilym swallowed dryly. "What did you tell these knights, father?"

"I called them brave men for venturing so far into a pagan land. I said, with my own eyes, I have seen the Druid rituals to honor the Old Gods. Not a mile away, I once saw a giant wicker man waiting to be stuffed with Christian men and burned. I suggested the knights cut through the forest and ride hard, without looking back, if they wanted to reach their ship by nightfall.”

“Did they piss themselves? Or realize the Druid bonfires passed in May and will not return for another month?”

“They were armored and on horseback,” the abbot replied drolly. “I could not see.”

Gwilym smirked tiredly. “What did you tell these knights of my wife?”

“The truth: I knew of no woman of noble blood in my abbey. Nor do we have a nun expecting a child. Nor an Irish mason's daughter. You are the first knight to ask after a squire, though."

Gwilym passed his lower lip between his teeth and adjusted his hands on the bars. 

"We are not entirely ignorant of the world here. We had heard Lord Gwilym married," the old abbot said neutrally. "That his young wife was so beautiful even the English King noticed her."

Gwilym took a slow breath. "That is true, father."

"Such beauty can be a curse to a woman."

"I suspect my wife would agree."

"I once encountered a woman who cut her face with a shaving razor, hoping to thwart a king's interest in her."

Gwilym's breath quickened and his stomach twisted. Surely Duana would not do that. Surely she had some faith in him. 

He knew he chose correctly, and Duana was inside the abbey's high walls - or at least, the abbot knew her location. He imagined he heard a newborn's faint, high-pitched, hungry cry on the breeze. He imagined Duana inside one of the buildings, waiting.

"I am the Lord of Gwynedd, father, and your abbey is on my land. Either open your gates and give me my wife, or I will return with knights and siege equipment and level your abbey. This may be holy ground, but I cannot be more damned than I already am."

"Do as you feel you must, my lord," the abbot answered calmly. "But there is an easier way."

"What is that?"

"Tell me, if you are Lord Gwilym, what do you call your wife?"

"What do I call my wife?" 

"What does Lord Gwilym call his wife?" the abbot repeated, as if telling a riddle.

"Duana?" Gwilym wrinkled his brow. "Cariad," he answered uncertainly. That was an odd password, though: too common a term of endearment and too easily overheard.

The abbot said, "That is sweet, my lord," as he backed away from the gates. "Good luck with your search."

"Wait." Gwilym tried to think of a password Duana would have chosen for Gwilym guess in order to gain access to a monastery. For months, he had thought of nothing but death. The playful teasing and sweet words accompanying the refuge of his and Duana's bed - and once the sofa, and twice the fur rug near the hearth - seemed so long ago. "Father, I call her my wanton witch."

The abbot produced a key from a pocket of his robe and fitted it into the lock. A moment later, the hinges protested as the abbey's gate swung open. 

"Leuan left for Wales last week to find you," the abbot said. "The birth was difficult but the danger to your wife has passed. We kept Lady Duana hidden in house nearby for a time, in case the King’s knights returned."

Gwilym led Goliath and followed the abbot. He wanted to ask a million questions, or at least to have the abbot point a direction so he could run, but instead fell in step with the old man's pace. 

“I knew Leuan’s mother,” the abbot said, as if making idle conversation. “Many, many years ago. Leuan lived with us as a boy, when your grandfather first founded this abbey. Leuan was a good boy, and his mother every bit as beautiful as your wife,” he added, which struck Gwilym as an odd observation for a man of God. “Did you know your grandfather, Lord Gwilym?”

“I did not.” Also, Gwilym had supposed Leuan hatched from some egg brooded over by a nervous, preachy Catholic hen.

“You favor him. Your grandfather and, I think, your great grandmother. Her ladyship came to us, after your great grandfather’s death, at the end of her days.”

“She is buried here?”

“She is not,” the old abbot answered enigmatically. “A Viking shield maiden? Those were different times, and she a great lady. She was not buried.” As they neared the church, the abbot said, "There is a rumor King John is dead. We hear he was poisoned by a Templar."

"I hear the same, Father."

"You are far from home, Lord Gwilym. I heard your wife's confession. Do you want me to hear your confession as well, my son?" the abbot offered so low Gwilym barely heard him. "Absolve you of sin?"

Gwilym hesitated. "I do not think that is within your power, Father, nor do I want my sin to become yours. I owe you a great deal already. I have spoken with God; let him judge me as he will." He took a small pouch from his saddlebag and emptied in into the abbot's gnarled hand. Instead of coins or poison, a heavy gold signet ring tumbled out, with the royal lions polished and easily seen. "Smelt this and put it to better use, Father. All I want is to get my wife and go home."

"Is King John truly dead?"

"He is dead. Long live King Henry III."

"Long live the boy-King, Lord Gwilym," said the old man. He made the sign of the cross, blessing Gwilym. "May it take him many years to grow up enough to trouble the Celts."

Gwilym scanned the buildings, looking for Duana. Goliath nudged him impatiently.

“Leuan sought a favor,” the abbot told Gwilym. “I was glad to do what was necessary, when it was necessary. Protect your wife and protect our future. In return, someday, may we count on you to do the same?”

“Father, you have my word.”

The abbot pointed a leathery finger at a small house near the back wall of the abbey.

The sky looked bluer, the grass greener, the autumn leaves more brilliant. The door to the little house opened and Duana emerged. She wore a plain, dark dress made of rough material, and a dark veil covered her hair. She spotted him, and Gwilym thought he had never seen such a lovely smile. 

He made an utter fool of himself. Gwilym dropped Goliath's reins, ran to Duana, and picked her up. He turned her in a circle but, remembering she just had a baby, almost dropped her. 

The monks working in the nearby garden stopped to stare.

Duana ran her fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms and over his face, as if she could recognize him by touch alone.

"You are real?" she asked. "You are my William? I am not dreaming?"

"I am real." As he said it, for the first time since Llewelyn brought the news of Dafydd's death, Gwilym did feel real. Not whole, but alive - like this autumn might eventually bring spring and new life, not merely stark, endless winter.

She put her arms around him a long time. She rested her head against his chest as if listening to his heartbeat.

"I am here," he assured her. "I promised I would return and we could go home. Are you well?"

"I am. I am better."

"Are you well enough to ride? I have a ship waiting. Get your things."

She hesitated. "William, my daughter- She is inside."

Again, he had momentarily forgotten about the baby. 

“I-I want to feed her before I leave,” Duana said shakily. “I do not want her to be hungry. She is a sweet baby.” She glanced up at him anxiously. 

He exhaled and nodded. "Show her to me."

He followed Duana into the plain little house, which was likely a gardener's residence vacated for her. He saw a simple bed, a chair beside the hearth, and a cradle beside the chair. In the cradle, a tiny swaddled baby slept.

He did not remember Duana taking his hand but noticed she held it. 

"Fontevraund Abbey, William," she said quietly.

He looked at Duana quizzically, hoping that was not what she had named this child. Having King John’s blood flow in her veins was burden enough without being named ‘Fontevraund.’

"The abbey where Eleanor of Aquitaine is buried in France," she explained. "The nuns there can read and write and play music. You said I could decide where my daughter is sent. I would like her to go to Fontevraund Abbey. If you have a ship, could we take her there?" She paused. "Or is it wiser to send her with a stranger, anonymously?"

"France is so far away," he answered neutrally, “and such a dangerous crossing this time of year.”

Duana's fingers tightened against his. She bit her lower lip. "I want her to be safe," she said shakily. "I do not want her found and used as the King's pawn, auctioned off to some foreign warlord."

Gwilym continued holding Duana’s hand as he looked impassively at the baby in the cradle. He waited for the flood of hatred and resentment but, like the deserts in the Holy Land, inside him lay mile after mile of nothing. Men could wander for years in the wasteland of his soul.

He could not have claimed King John’s bastard as his son a second time. Not as his heir, not now. A daughter though- 

Gwilym studied the baby. He looked at Duana’s hand clasping his. Gwilym was an unborn creature connected to its mother by an umbilicus; Duana’s hand tethered him to life. If she let go, he died.

“There was an old woman, a midwife, I think,” Duana told Gwilym quietly. “As the baby was born. I was tired, and bleeding. The baby would not come, and Father Leuan returned with a midwife. She gave me a tea to drink, and performed some ceremony. I do not remember clearly. I did not think it a Christian ceremony, but Father Leuan said I am mistaken. The old woman had gone and Father Leuan had baptized the baby by the time I woke,” Duana assured him. “She is healthy and baptized and named. We waited for word from you before sending her away.”

Gwilym nodded noncommittally. "Cariad, do you want to keep this child?" he asked, though he knew what her answer would be.

She nodded she did. Tear tracks began paths down her cheeks. 

"If I acknowledge this child as mine, will you say the same?"

She looked up at him uncertainly.

"King John is dead," he said. "He died last month, and now burns in Hell. Word is only now filtering this far north."

"William, what have you done?" she asked hoarsely. 

"I have kept you and your child safe, as I promised. Beyond that, it is best you do not know. If you can ride, get your daughter and we will take her home."

He saw Duana wanting to ask, but she wiped her face and gathered her meager belongings. Lacking anything else to do, Gwilym picked up the baby and looked at her. Her little face resembled Dafydd's features somewhat and Gwilym's none at all.

He waited again for some emotion but felt no surge of love, or resentment, or disgust. He felt sad. A longing, empty sadness. He remembered holding an infant Dafydd and, a few years later, holding his own little girl. 

"What is this child's name?"

"Eimile. I told you."

"Eimile," he told the baby.

The baby slept on.

A short time later, Gwilym helped Duana onto Goliath, and handed the baby up to her. He took the reins and, as he led the big horse, told him, "One more time old boy, and I hope it will be the last time. Take us home."

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth III: Saeson

 

Hiraeth IV: Credu

*~*~*~*

The first hard winter storm passed over Aber, leaving a white blanket of stillness. The snow closed the mountain passes, cutting Gwynedd off from the rest of the world. Northern Wales became temporarily immune to the Norman's endless political strife. Messengers could get through, but not armies. If the King's summons did not come by late fall, all bloodshed had to wait for early spring.

The work of the year was finished. The harvest was stored, hams and fish smoked, the cracks in the walls patched against the icy wind. Cords upon cords of firewood waited in the inner bailey. The time arrived to relax, send messages to friends or invite them to visit. To reminisce and boast. To sit beside the fire drinking wine or reading, or to linger in bed with his wife. To teach his children letters or music or to sing them safely to sleep.

Aber Castle was far too quiet, and Gwilym felt the cold in his bones. 

He received no word from Prince Llewelyn. Not welcoming them home from Ireland, not congratulating Gwilym on having a daughter, and not ordering the child vanish. No word came from London Court either, except a summons to pay homage to the new Norman boy-King.

Gwilym's new wife was, once again, in the nursery with the new baby. Months before Eimile was born, they stopped calling the room Duana's bedchamber and started saying 'nursery.' The bed in the nursery usually held his wife these days; for all intents and purposes, it was Duana's bedchamber again. 

The dark, empty hours stretched on forever. 

The mason and his apprentices had arrived before the snow and begun work on Dafydd’s tomb in St. Mary's Abbey. Gwilym supervised them for hours the previous day, watching their chisels mercilessly chip away at the marble.

As summer was the season of war, winter was the season of death. 

"Have faith," Father Leuan counseled him earlier.

Gwilym could seldom sleep; if he did sleep, he had one nightmare after another. He dreamed of Dafydd locked with the other Welsh boys in a cold dungeon, listening wide-eyed to the scaffold being built outside. Gwilym was in the next cell, beaten and broken and helpless to help. Dafydd would ask what he did to deserve to die and Gwilym had no answer. The King's men came and took Dafydd away. 

Gwilym dreamed of his daughter, cold and frightened and wandering in the snow as she cried for her father. He heard wolves and made out sneering, hungry men in the shadows, but saw no landmarks to tell him where his little girl was. There was endless snow as far as he could see. He dreamed of Diana giving the baby to little Dafydd and telling him to run away as the flames engulfed the house. The peasants would let Dafydd out, but not Diana. The fire grew hotter, closer, and in his dreams Gwilym heard her screaming for him.

He could kill a man with his bare hands and command an army of the most dangerous men alive, but he could not save two innocent children or their mother.

Sometimes the nightmares were of searching for Duana; she was hidden inside a cave of ice, and he must get to her before it was too late. In the dreams, it was too late. He found her floating beneath the surface of a frozen lake, her hair cropped off and her face battered, with her dead blue eyes staring up at him, silently pleading for help that had not come in time.

This time, he dreamed of Dafydd as a little boy again, running through the castle and calling for Gwilym to leave the letters and figures and come play with him. He heard the boy's laughter and his bare feet slapping against the slate stones. In the dream, Gwilym left his desk and chased after him, tripping lightly down the stairs. He would catch Dafydd and tickle him and toss him into the air and put his arms around him. 

Gwilym reached the great hall, but it was empty. The hearth was unlit, the long tables and benches bare, and most of the torches and candles burned out. No one was there.

"Find me, Dehdeh," a little voice called from the shadows.

"Dafydd," Gwilym said, looking around the dark room. "Dafy. Where are you?"

"Find me," the voice insisted playfully, sounding surreal, like it was inside his mind rather than outside his head.

"I cannot find you, son. You must come back to me."

"I cannot come back, Dehdeh," the boy's voice answered. "I can never come back," it informed him, still laughing perversely until it faded away.

His breath caught in his throat and spread to an ache filling the inside of his chest.

The ache remained once Gwilym woke, fully dressed, standing in the great hall of Aber Castle. Like in his dream, the room was dark and empty, and the fire was out. 

He must have sleepwalked down the stairs, Gwilym decided, his heart pounding. He sat down heavily on one of the benches, catching his breath, and tried to clear his head. It must be near midnight, and the spirits began to chase each other from this world to the next.

"Dehdeh," the little boy's voice called again in the eerily silent room.

Gwilym whirled around and found the empty dais. He jerked the tablecloth away to check beneath the table. He sent a forgotten goblet crashing to the floor but found nothing. Behind him, Gwilym heard bare feet run across the room, and a child's laughter. The little footsteps skipped past the cold hearth and up the stairs to the bedchambers, and disappeared to a place where Gwilym could not go.

He stared at the dark stone steps for a long time, as if Dafydd might come back if he waited.

He took a deep breath. Closing his eyes for a second, he exhaled. He was truly awake. It had been a dream. 

He was not eager to return upstairs to sleep alone. If Duana had been in their bed, he would have gone to her, but she was not and so he did not.

A bard played at supper for the last few days, and the man's lute was propped against the edge of the dais. Gwilym picked it up, idly trying to play it as he waited for his body to relax. He played proficiently, as did his kinsmen; music and poetry were part of every Welshman's blood. He taught Dafydd to play and begun teaching his daughter. The children practiced while he was on Crusade, and each trip Gwilym had made sure to learn a new style - Spanish, Italian, even Bulgar and Moorish - and taught it to the children. He remembered helping position little fingers around the neck of the instrument, showing them once, and marveling at how quickly they learned.

His left hand still moved easily over the frets, forming chords learned as a boy, but his right hand would not cooperate to pluck the strings. He tried for several minutes, getting increasingly angry as he produced noise rather than music.

Two dogs wandered downstairs and sat watching him, looking puzzled. A servant asleep near the hearth stirred.

He had to be able to play. He would need to teach Eimile, and Duana might like to learn, as well. Some wine and lute with Duana, and he might once again have a son to teach music and poetry and sparing and horseback riding. Gwilym could teach the boy to be brave and cunning and fair and strong and all the things a Welsh nobleman should be - so the new Norman king could send his son off to die on a whim. The King would claim it was his royal right.

Anger flooded his veins. Gwilym bashed the uncooperative lute against a table, splintering the wood. Cursing, he threw what remained across the room.

Guards and sleepy servants came running. Gwilym even succeeded in getting Duana's attention. She appeared at the base of the steps barefooted, in her chemise, looking frightened. She tucked her short hair behind her ears.

Still angry and now embarrassed, Gwilym yelled at everyone to get the hell away from him. He stalked outside, into the cold November night. He got as far as the inner castle gate before his temper cooled and he realized, even if he ordered the gate opened, two feet of snow sat on the ground and plenty more waited in the sky. He had nowhere to go. The entire world was a nightmare, albeit a more familiar one than in his dreams.

He stood in the inner bailey in his shirt and breeches and the darkness, shivering as the knowledge settled over him. He could never go back. Dafydd was dead and his daughter was gone and Gwilym had broken his oath to the King. He could never go back to the man he was and he did not much care for the man he had become.

"Have faith," Father Leuan had counseled, but Gwilym was not sure what remained in his world to have faith in.

Gwilym returned inside, quaking with cold, to find Duana still on the bottom step. She watched him worriedly. A servant had brought her a robe, but she held rather than wore it.

"Un cauchemar?" she asked he approached.

"A what?" he snapped.

"A nightmare," she said softly, in Welsh. "Did you have a nightmare?"

'You did this,' he wanted to yell at her, though he knew that was not the case. He did this. Father Leuan warned him, and Llewelyn gave him the opportunity to undo the marriage, but Gwilym had not. He charged blindly forward. "Besotted," was the word Leuan used last winter.

"I do not want any more lute players here," he ordered angrily.

"All right," she agreed, though he knew he acted like a crazy man. "I will send him away in the morning."

"I will deal with him."

"All right," she repeated cautiously. 

After a few seconds, she took his hand. Gwilym let her lead him up the steps and to the sofa in his office. He sat down, feeling empty, and watched as she fed a few logs to the hearth. He saw the silhouette of her legs through the fabric of her chemise.

Seventy days, he reminded himself, as if that truly made a difference. If she invited, he would have paid the indulgences and listened to Leuan's half-hearted lecture about restraint and women being unclean after the birth of a child. It was only forty days of abstinence after a son, and that had passed. Almost.

Duana sat down and positioned his head on her lap. She covered him with his old robe and began to pet his hair. Her fingers felt warm and soft, and he heard her heartbeat and smelled her skin. It was familiar, comforting. 

"I heard Dafydd," he confessed as he watched the fire.

"He hears you, as well," she assured him. "He is with his mother and sister. They are at peace."

The fire warmed his face, and Gwilym closed his eyes, beginning to relax.

"Do not send the bard away," he conceded. "See about a new lute for him. I tripped over his in the dark, and it is probably broken."

He could not tell if she believed that, but she said, "He should not be so careless with it."

She continued to toy with his hair and stroke the stubble on his jaw. As he approached the edge of sleep, feeling bone-tired, he said, "I miss you."

Across the hall, he heard Eimile start to whimper. The baby settled briefly and, committing herself, begin to cry in earnest. Duana started to get up, but stopped and resumed stroking his hair. He heard footsteps: the baby's wet nurse. A moment later, there was angry wailing while Eimile got a dry backside rather than a warm breast.

He felt Duana tensing, and he opened his eyes. She watched the open doorway. Eimile's nurse peered in, holding the unhappy baby and assessing the situation in the office. Clearly, Eimile was hungry, but the nursemaid hesitated before she nursed the baby herself. Gwilym frowned. Duana was not supposed to be doing that; the birth had been difficult, and Duana should rest and save her strength. They were home and she had no more need to nurse. It was common.

He sighed. "Go to her," he said unhappily, and sat up.

Instead, Duana motioned for the nursemaid to bring Eimile to her, and to close the office door on the way out.

"Go ahead. Yell at me again," she muttered irritably as she untied the front of her chemise. 

He looked at her, his teeth gritted. He stood, towering over her.

Duana stepped back.

Eimile still cried loudly, and the front of Duana's chemise was open, revealing the tops of full, bare breasts.

"Bring the baby to our bedchamber. I will get her cradle. Once she is asleep, pass the night with me." 

He trailed his forefinger down her breast. She watched his hand, doing nothing to stop or encourage him. 

At her hesitance, he added, "Or she may sleep with us, so I know both of you are warm and safe."

"I cannot sleep until I feed my child."

"Our child," he corrected sternly, and followed her to their bedchamber.

*~*~*~*

The next night, with her cheeks prettily flushed by alcohol, Duana pointed an unsteady but accusing finger at Gwilym. "I think, dear husband," she said, stumbling backward into their bedchamber and giggling stupidly, "you have gotten me drunk on brandywine to seduce me."

Gwilym pulled her dress over her head and tossed it on the floor. "You are wrong, woman," he assured her. "That is not my intent. I merely want to give you something of mine for safekeeping.”

She giggled again. “What is this thing? How long must I keep it?”

“A small thing, but you may keep inside your nice little box as long as you like.” He pulled her toward their bed by her wrist. “Come.”

Gwilym felt the alcohol, but Duana was slight and had emptied the last cup quickly. She was so drunk she tripped over her words as well as her feet, and seemed troubled by neither. She pointed her index finger at him again. “I do not recall it as a small thing.”

He shook his head she was mistaken. “These many months have made your memory faulty.” He stripped off his shirt and breeches, stepped close to her again and whispered in her ear, “Open your legs, close your eyes, and I may give you a surprise.”

Again, she thought this hilarious. 

Duana fumbled with the ribbons at the neck of her chemise while Gwilym got in the way by kissing the hollow of her throat. She tried to bat him aside so she could undress but the laces were tied tight and wet from his mouth. He took a turn at untying the knotted ribbons, but his fingers would not cooperate. Duana swaying on her feet and giggling did not help matters.

She told Gwilym to leave it on, that she remained “fat.” Duana stumbled over something again – the floor - as she stepped back to the bed.

"You will be sick in the morning,” he said.

She tapped the end of his nose clumsily. “That is my aim.”

“Christ,” he muttered to himself. “Be still." She remained, if not still, less of a moving target as he cut the ribbon with his dagger. “There. Show me where you keep this ‘fat.’ Every man in Aber seems to keep track of my wife. None of us can find anything to object to, though there is much speculation. Let me see, Cariad. Is it, hum, here?" 

He kissed the slope of her shoulder as her chemise joined her dress on the floor.

"Not there. Here?" A lovely, full breast. He felt the weight of it as he caressed her. "I cannot find it. Lie back. I will search further."

She looked at him like a serious child and fell backward onto the furs of their bed with a little ‘ooph’ sound. 

Gwilym stripped off what remained of his clothing and joined her. He nuzzled playfully at her ear with his nose. She squirmed and giggled like a teenage girl.

"Drunk, drunk, drunk," he teased between kisses. "My pretty wife is a sot."

"You are the sot, as of late. The sad sot." Duana, finding that humorous, collapsed into another giggling fit. She rolled over and started to crawl away. "This bed is spinning. I am leaving it before I fall."

"No nursery for you tonight. You promised. Stay with your lord husband tonight and make me wake with a smile tomorrow."

He put his arm around her waist, thwarting her escape and tossing her to her back. She landed, as he requested, with her legs open. Kneeling in front of her, he ran his hand up her bare thigh. The drunken twittering and squirming stopped. She looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

"It is all right," he said quickly. He flopped down with her. "It is your Gwilym, who has had too much brandywine as well. Relax," he said quietly as he put his arms around her. "Relax," he repeated, and felt the muscles of her shoulders soften. "I will be gentle. Or would you rather I appreciate another of your talents?"

Duana paused to hiccup. Like a sincere, thoughtful child, she said, "Father John says you must have another son."

Gwilym would speak to Leuan about his counsel to his wife. The priest told Gwilym earlier, in confidence, Duana worried Gwilym would send Eimile away. Gwilym had poured Duana a cup of brandywine after supper and talked with her alone, assuring Duana that was not the case. That comforted her. She lingered with him, even staying while she nursed the baby and, once Eimile slept and Duana did not go to her own bed, Gwilym appraised the situation and poured them more brandywine. He had kissed her and moved them from the sofa to the fur rug in front of the hearth. More strong brandywine, more kisses. He asked her to his bed, and she agreed. She had barely been able to stand, but she agreed to pass the night with him. 

Gwilym recalled wondering, midway through the second cup of brandywine, about her sudden change of heart. She declined the previous night and seemed to have barely noticed him at all since they returned from the Isle of Man. The mystery was solved. Duana was not always an obedient wife, but she was a dutiful one.

Gwilym disliked her coming to him solely out of duty, but he also knew what the English said about how no man ought to look a free horse in the mouth.

He ran his hands over her, trying to get her to relax. To be silly and boneless, as she was a moment ago. She hiccoughed again, making her breasts jiggle against his chest, but otherwise stayed still. The silly twittering, so unlike her, annoyed him, but this was worse. If he had not felt Duana’s fingers in his hair, Gwilym would have thought she passed out. Which he would have preferred if the alternative was his wife acting as if she wanted him to do this and have it done. 

Gwilym had been with prostitutes who had a small baby asleep in a corner cradle. Those women had not behaved like this. They did not look through him, or shy from touching him. And, he had been with Diana a month after Dafydd came. At Diana’s invitation. A fair amount of beer, go slowly and be gentle at first, and their acquaintance had been happily, even enthusiastically renewed. Renewed quite often, that year. Gwilym could not bed a woman as a baby cried so he became adept at getting Dafydd to sleep quickly. Little Dafydd took two naps a day and slept through the night; Gwilym marveled that it took years for him to get Diana with child again.

Duana parted her legs again, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her face against his shoulder as if seeking safety. She waited, breathing quickly but otherwise being completely still and compliant. 

She was not a whore, Gwilym reminded himself. Nor was his wife the village mattress trying to hold a nobleman’s attention. Duana was his Christian wife who clearly would not be in Gwilym’s bed unless his priest lectured her.

"Open those pretty eyes and look up at me." He moved to the pillow beside her. Gwilym suspected she saw at least three of him. "I have no taste for a woman who does not want me.”

Her face began to crumple. “I do want you,” she insisted as her chin trembled. “You are so sad, and I have caused it.” She took his hand and pulled him back to her. “Please. I want you to do this.”

Gwilym exhaled and moved toward her again. She flinched but relaxed as he touched between her legs. He found that little knob of flesh at the top of her sex and rubbed it. He put his fingers in his own mouth to moisten them and pushed those fingers inside her. She whimpered but did not struggle or stiffen. 

“Have you been first with a girl?” Duana asked, nearly unintelligible.

“I have,” he told her honestly. “And first with women who have had a baby. If it hurts, it hurts a few seconds. After that, you make your lonely husband a happy man, and even enjoy yourself.”

Duana nodded. 

Inside her cunny, he parted his index and middle fingers, and continued moving his hand. She gasped and tilted her head back at the increased pressure. “Does that hurt?”

She shook her head it did not.

“Relax and let me love you.” He moved on top of her again. 

"Do you love me, William?" she asked, slurring her words. Duana shifted under him, and he felt the heat of her sex, slick, against the head of his prick. "You never, ever say it."

"I killed a king to keep you, Cariad. I made sure he burns in Hell. There has been no other woman since I first saw you - not when I am away, and not in all these months. Do you still need the pretty words?"

Her body began to open under his. She gasped as he penetrated, but did not struggle.

"Oh, Christ. Christ, that is sweet. So sweet." Gwilym moved back, and thrust, still slow and careful. Her face stayed against his chest as he pressed the rest of the way into her. She stiffened, cried out, and her fingers tightened against his back. “Done,” he told her. He thrust again, and Duana panted like an injured animal. “Relax. It is done.”

With his prick deep inside her, he kissed her forehead. Her face felt damp, as did her palms against his skin. He rocked against her, slow and gentle, and heard the same pained response. 

"It still hurts?" 

“Will you, will you hurry?”

He nodded. 

It was awkward to kiss her lips but he felt her breath quick and hot against his shoulder. Duana still cried out each time he thrust. Duana’s hands moved from his back to his chest, as if she wanted to push him off her. He tried to be careful and to hurry, but the two were mutually exclusive acts. 

Finish, he commanded himself, regretting all that brandy and the two decades separating him from sixteen. Finish. Have this done. Nearby servants had to wonder if Gwilym raped his own wife. Gwilym told Duana the truth: he had been with no one besides her, and so he had slept alone for months. A quarter hour ago, as he lay kissing her in front of the hearth, Duana had run her hand down his breeches and he feared embarrassing himself before they could undress and reach the bed. Now, though... He tried to relax, to focus, but Duana’s increasingly pained gasps and whimpers greeted each stroke. 

He stopped moving and shook his head. For the first time in his life, he told a woman, “I cannot.” He shifted his hips back and, panting, rested his sweaty forehead against hers. “I cannot.”

Her fingertips felt cool against his cheeks. “You can. I want you to.”

“I am hurting you.”

She shook her head drunkenly he was not, but said, “It does not matter.”

“Duana, I-”

She kissed him with the rough carelessness of intoxication. As they embraced, her hand traveled down to his erection. “You can,” she repeated, stroking. “I want it to have been you.”

“I-”

“It does not hurt anymore. Come to me. I want it to have been you,” she repeated, whatever that meant. Duana wrapped her leg around his hip and her arms around his neck, urging his course.

“Do you swear it?”

She nodded.

Gwilym exhaled and pushed his prick inside her again. He felt Duana’s breath against the base of his neck and her hands on his back. “Sweet,” he told her. Each thrust took him deeper into the hot, slick depths he remembered fondly. He felt Duana breathing rapidly, but this time heard no gasps or whimpers or signs of distress.

“Harder?” he asked.

Her head nodded he could.

"Almost," he said as the wonderful pressure began to build. 

Her legs opened wider for him. At the last hard thrusts he heard her cry out, and his body spasmed and emptied into hers. 

"Oh, God. Sweet Christ, I have missed you." Gwilym exhaled. His heart pounded as the feeling of total peace overtook him. 

He rolled off her and back onto the cool pillows. 

Duana closed her legs. After a few seconds, rather than curling up to him as she used to, she rolled away.

Gwilym moved against her back, stroked her hip, and offered, “What if I pleasure you with my hand? Help that son along?”

He kissed her shoulder, but her head shook ‘no.’

He furrowed his brow and tried to roll Duana to her back again. A short wrestling match ensured, which Gwilym won. She tried to look away, but he took her chin and turned her face so he saw it in the firelight. He found wet tear tracks down her face. Duana bit her lip, struggling not to cry.

“Shit.” He bypassed his usual cursing by Christ’s bones and Mary’s blood. The English “fuck,” also seemed appropriate. “You swore to me. I do not want a son this badly, Duana.”

"I am fine," she said, and took a shuddery breath. 

“You swore,” he repeated angrily.

She raised her head to kiss him, and he shied away. He let go of her face and shoulder and moved back. He would have kicked her out of his bed, had she not been drunk and weeping and his wife. He settled for calling her, “Liar.”

“I did not lie.” Duana sounded petulant. “I said I want it to have been you, and that is true.”

He sighed in tired frustration. “I succeeded this evening; you are drunk, Cariad." He found a cover, pulled it over them, and took her hand. “You want who or what to have been me?”

"When I was a girl. When I was a virgin. I wish it had been you who crossed my path," she replied, sounding drunk and sad.

Caught off guard, he answered, "Oh Duana, I wish it had been me too. That would have saved both of us so much hurt." 

*~*~*~*

If Llewelyn had been unaccompanied, he would have ridden on, but the Prince of Wales seldom traveled unaccompanied. He already signaled his knights to stop at the tavern, and they spotted Goliath at the same moment as he had. Llewelyn could not back out gracefully. He could either go inside and see Gwilym, or ride on and have all of Gwynedd whisper Llewelyn was afraid to face their lord.

Llewelyn took a deep breath and reined his horse to a stop. Two of his knights entered the tavern first. By the time Llewelyn stepped inside, the crowd had parted like the story of Moses and the Red Sea. He felt eyes following him. Prostitutes had made themselves scarce, and every man silently chose a side.

For a while, Gwilym favored a pretty whore in this tavern, but not lately. Lately, word was Gwilym returned from Ireland in late fall with his wife and a baby girl, and had kept close to his own hearth this winter. Gwil had not sent messages to Dolwyddelan Castle, nor visited, nor invited Llewelyn to visit him or meet to go hunting or fishing. The silence was deafening.

Gwilym stood at a high table with two of his own knights – the silent, giant twin brothers who often accompanied him. Gwil wore his riding cloak and held a tankard. So close to Aber Castle, he likely planned to be home for supper. Llewelyn was farther from his own castle and in no hurry to get home to the chaos in the great hall of Welsh court and the tense silence of his private rooms. In fact, if Llewelyn thought he would be welcome, he might have ridden up to Aber Castle for the night to talk war and nonsense with Gwilym, lose a game of chess, check on Walter Pembroke's pretty widow, and see the new baby.

Gwilym looked at Llewelyn steadily, appraising him with those unreadable dark eyes. The Prince's knights flanked him, staying close. Llewelyn silently gave thanks for that. He and Gwil had been friends since boyhood, but Gwilym might still greet Llewelyn with another fist in the face. How Llewelyn would respond if Gwilym struck him again, especially in public, he did not know.

They fought many wars together. Gwilym was as good with a blade or bow as Llewelyn, and a brilliant general and strategist. Llewelyn owed many victories to Gwilym; his friend seemed to read the enemy's mind and predict what the other army would and would not do. Gwil possessed a frightening intellect combined with a child-like curiosity of the world. And of things far beyond their world. The times the Prince witnessed it though, Gwilym possessed an equally frightening, calculating, cold-blooded rage.

According to gossip, an arrow got Gwilym, and his right hand did not heal properly. A knight claimed to have seen the Gwilym drop his sword while sparring. Perhaps Gwil was not as handy with a blade now, but Llewelyn knew this: if Gwilym had wanted the Prince of Wales dead, Llewelyn would be dead.

Gwilym stepped sideways, making a place for Llewelyn at the table, and gestured to the owner for more beer and stools. The room breathed a sigh of relief, and the casual hum of conversation resumed.

"How is the baby?" Llewelyn asked for lack of anything else to say.

"She is healthy." Gwilym answered succinctly as the tavern owner brought seats and ale. "How is your Guto?"

"Broken," Llewelyn responded, using the French word.

Gwilym took a long drink, drinking quickly. Getting drunk seemed a fine idea to Llewelyn this evening. He emptied his cup as well.

"You know my second son," Llewelyn said few minutes later, still in French. It was no secret to the knights with him, but he did not want all of Wales to know yet. "I am considering sending him to you to train. I think he should be ready, should he need to rule."

"I have no sons for him to train with," Gwilym answered. 

"That may change, in time."

The noblemen of Wales lost their eldest son this past summer but most, like Llewelyn, had others. Wales was a land of war though, and those second sons had not been brought up to be warlords. Rhys was Llewelyn's other son, born to Tang a few years after Llewelyn had married Joanna. That was a sketchy claim to the throne these days, even in Wales.

"Perhaps." Llewelyn sat in uncomfortable silence until Gwilym added, "I will come to your court this summer. I will bring Melvin and teach Reese all I can. He is young. Perhaps there is still time."

Llewelyn studied his cup. "You do not think Reese can rule?"

Gwilym considered for a moment. "He seems a kind boy, dutiful, thoughtful. Much like his mother. But this is not France; kindness and duty will not rule Wales, and many men will challenge his right to rule. If Reese was Prince of Wales, he would say to me he is sorry: for my son's death, for bringing trouble to my hearth. That would be the kind thing to do. You would never say that, Leolin, nor can it be true. You are not my friend; you are the Prince of Wales whom I knew in boyhood. You may regret my losses, but you are not sorry as one man is to another. You cannot even grieve your own hurts. You are not a man or a husband or a father; you are an institution, a crown. A crown does not apologize or befriend. You are the Prince of Wales, and I and the other boys' fathers are your subjects. You do not apologize for being our Prince, which is why you can rule these lands. When I lead men in battle, I am a symbol. I cannot falter. The same is true when a man leads a warrior nation. After the battle, I can return home and be mortal, though. The Prince of Wales must be God-like. If he is ever mortal, he is weak. If he is weak, he is as good as dead."

"But I am mortal, Will. I am sorry."

"I know, Leol," Gwilym said, "but never tell anyone." He signaled the tavern owner again and encouraged in Welsh, "Drink."

*~*~*~*

Duana wore Gwilym’s old robe and brushed out what remained of her hair as Gwilym stumbled in. Gwen had left a tray of food on the table, but hope of getting hot water for a bath passed hours ago unless Gwilym wanted to heat it himself or tell Duana to do it.

"How is the baby?" he asked. “Are you well?”

He left a trail of his cloak, money purse, dagger, belt, boots, and tunic on the floor as he crossed their bedchamber. Stripping off his linen shirt, Gwilym took a breath, braced himself, and plunged his face into the basin of icy water. Duana would not appreciate him coming to bed smelling like a brewery. 

"By Christ, that is cold." Gwilym gave everything from the waist up a quick scrub and shook his head like a dog so water flew everywhere. "I am sorry I missed supper. I crossed paths Llewelyn at the tavern. It was not as awkward as I thought: seeing him. He says Gruffydd still lives. The Brat-King keeps the boy in The Tower but may still execute him. It must be awful to know your son dies one day at a time. Perhaps I should be grateful, Llewel says. ‘Perhaps not, you arrogant bastard,’ I say. Anyway, we spoke of betrothing Eimile to his younger son. The other one by Tang. It would be a good match, I think. He will have a contract drawn up." 

He felt Duana’s eyes boring into his back.

Reaching for the towel, Gwilym continued. "Llewelyn wants us to come to Christmas Court at Dolwyddelan Castle. He said he thinks you and his Norman wife might get on well. Which means his Norman wife is back at Dolwyddelan Castle, though I could not extract any details from him. Did I tell you? J- J-" He gave up on saying the woman's foreign name and said instead, "I suspect his wife will hate you on sight, but she speaks French. If you two do get on, you would have a friend a few hours ride away. Maybe that would cheer you up. Llewel fears many noblemen will find a reason not to come to this Christmas Court, but I told him we would come. How is your head? Is the baby's cough better?"

"Have you been drinking again, William?" 

"Only enough to loosen my tongue. How are you feeling?” His prediction proved true this morning. Duana woke to greet a devil of a hangover, and been hunched miserably over a basin as he breakfasted and left this morning. “How is Eimile?"

Gwilym left the damp towel on a hook and came up behind his wife. He toyed with her short hair and stroked the smoothness of her neck.

Duana shrugged away. "Eimile is fevered. I thought I would sleep with her tonight, if that is all right?" She placed her brush on the wooden chest and focused on the metal mirror. "Do you want anything?" 

"I do. I want you." 

She nodded, barely moving her head. "Whatever you want, my lord."

The pleasant numbness from the alcohol decrease markedly. “How can you be angry with me about last night? I-I- I would have stopped. You deceived me. I had no desire to hurt you last night, and no desire this night.”

Duana stared past her own reflection.

“Are you still feeling unwell from the brandywine? Or, or sore?” he asked awkwardly. “Duana, I am sorry, but you did not tell me.”

That got no response.

"Bring the baby to sleep with us later, if you are worried about her." His eyes scoured her back for clues. He checked on the baby before he came to their bedchamber. Eimile seemed fine. “I will not hurt you,” he promised, and remembered to use the proper French phrase.

Another nod.

He toyed with the fabric of the robe she wore, stroked her hair again, and stepped close behind her and put his arm around her. He kissed her neck and added, "If you are too sore, I recall you as a woman of many talents. Choose as you wish, but I want you to remain with me."

Duana nodded her head again, looking at the floor and otherwise still as he touched her. 

"Duana, the baby is fine," he said in exasperation. "Your husband, however, has had a miserable evening and is lonely. I pray: make it better."

"Or course,” she repeated. “Will you stand?” She turned around. Duana untied the neck of her chemise so the tops of her breasts showed, and gathered up the front hem. “Or sit, my lord?”

He stared at her, and grabbed her wrist stopped her before she could kneel in front of him. “Do not. You act as if I gave you a handful of coins.”

“I am doing as you asked. You told me to choose. Do you want me on the bed?”

“Stop this,” he told her sternly. He swallowed. "Go check on Eimile. Ease your mind."

"You do not want me?"

"Of course, I want you." Gwilym did not understand this game. "Clearly, it is the other way around. You do not want me."

He expected an answer, but she continued to stand like a soldier waiting to be dismissed. Except with her chemise open and her breasts largely exposed. His soldiers seldom had breasts so nice. 

"Fine,” he said tersely. “Go. Enjoy your baby and your empty bed."

He turned away and jerked at the laces of his breeches, stripping for bed.

At the feel of a warm hand against the small of his back, Gwilym stopped. His thumbs remained looped in the waist of his breeches. After a few seconds, Duana rested her forehead against his shoulder blade. Her breath made his skin shiver as she spoke. "I do not know what is wrong with me. I feel- I-" She tried several times, but never finished the sentence. “William, I am sorry. Or course I will do whatever you want.”

"You do not have to. I left a tavern of women who will do whatever I want - to come home to you.”

“I am sorry,” her voice repeated.

“It is quite soon, I know. If the goal is another child, we can wait and see if you have conceived."

Her hands slid around his waist, toying with the line of dark hair running down from his navel. "Another child you can marry off as you please?"

This was like fighting blindfolded. He had no idea where the next assault would come from.

"Llewelyn is a good man. I trust his son will be as well, but a woman cannot be married until she is of age. This is no more than a tentative bargain. If it does not seem a good match once Eimile is older, either to Llewelyn or to me, there are no hard feelings. Only peasants marry for love, but I will not have her miserable." 

Thinking he had figured out what bothered her, Gwilym turned so they faced each other. Her arms still rested on his hips. "I am not trying to send her away. I told you. I like that Eimile will see Rhys as they grow up. He will not be a stranger to her. She can visit him but live with us until she is at least twelve, and probably much older. I am not eager to give Eimile to a man as soon as she is of age. Once she is married, she will be as few hours ride away."

"But Eimile can choose? If she does not want to marry Prince Llewelyn's son, you will not insist?"

"If she objects, I will not insist she be the Princess of Wales," he said sarcastically. It was the best match he could dream of. It kept Eimile close to home, protected by law, and married to the kind son of a nobleman he respected. He did not like Duana disdaining it. "She can marry my idiot tanner, too, if she chooses."

He exhaled, remembering he had been drinking, and the evening with Llewelyn had been a tense one.

"She does not have to be married to a man she does not want," he amended more calmly. He rested his chin on top of her head, closed his eyes, and thought he understood. "Neither do you. You do not owe me another son nor will I make you remain here. You have always been free to go as you please."

Duana balled her hands into fists against his chest as though she wanted badly to hit someone. "I do not want to leave. I do want to give you another son. You are so good to me. I should be on my knees thanking God you care for me and Eimile."

"What is wrong? Help me understand, because I truly do not." He put a hand under her chin and tilted her face up. "I want you or no one. I need a son, but not enough to hurt or force you or, in truth, to risk your health. I sorely miss making love to you, but you will not find another woman in our bed because you are hesitant. If I had just given birth, I would be hesitant as well." 

Gwilym took two steps back so he sat on the high mattress, and pulled Duana to come with him. He racked his brain, still guessing. "This second son of Llewelyn's is no relation to King John. Tangwystl died giving birth to Rhys and Angharad. Llewelyn has acknowledged his children as I did Dafydd and my daughter. There is no stigma in Wales Rhys is a bastard, though it will be a problem if he must rule. Do you not like Llewelyn's wife being King John's daughter? Or do you not want Eimile married to a Welshman? I thought... I do not like how I see Normans treat their wives. I do not want my daughter married to a stranger in a far land who can beat her as he pleases. If Rhys ap Llewelyn mistreats Eimile, he answers to me and to his father, provided Eimile does not kill Rhys first."

Battles he planned precisely, but used this tactic in talking to women: keep moving and eventually he would stumble onto the correct thing. Little strategy was involved. Duana exhaled and lay down, so Gwilym must have said something right. He only had to figure out what it was. He curled up behind her, draped an arm over her shoulders, and pondered, pursing his lips in effort.

"When I first came here," Duana said, "I was so frightened. I wanted to close my eyes, lie in your arms, and let you protect me. You did. I never should have let you make such a promise, but I did. I know what you have done for me, and nothing I do can ever repay such a debt."

He opened his mouth to say she owed him no debt.

“What you did, what you lost- In the end, after the blood and the tears and the lies, I am all that remains. A woman. A woman and a daughter not of your blood. How can that be enough?

“A lovely woman,” he stipulated, and ran his fingers through her cropped curls. “A lovely woman and a daughter I am well-pleased with.”

“You keep Eimile to appease me. How can you be pleased with her?”

“I am,” he promised. “A son is not the only child I have lost. Only the most recent.”

He felt her take a long shuddery breath. “And me? The wife you did not want, who has brought you nothing but trouble? Something you felt honor-bound to protect, like your vassal’s castle or a peasant’s sow? Do you feel so honor-bound now, Lord William?” Duana asked the bed curtain. “Or, if Prince Llewelyn was lonely, would you gladly offer me to him as you would offer your horse if his was lame? Garner favor with the Prince while ridding yourself of a troublesome obligation?”

Gwilym pushed up on his elbow. "Are you insane?" Either he misunderstood, or she must think he was a barbarian.

"I must be." 

*~*~*~*

"She thinks I would offer her to another man. To you. For sport. Like a Norman welcoming a noble guest: here is your bed, and here is a woman to warm it."

Father Leuan leaned away from the table, looking disapproving, but Prince Llewelyn seemed thoughtful. Gwilym waited, glad to have someone with whom to discuss the puzzle of the fairer sex. Merfyn would listen, but listening and understanding were two different things - and Merfyn would embroider on extra details and tell the entire castle.

"That is not what you first said Duana said, Gwil." Llewelyn waved away the tavern owner offering more wine. "Even if it is, I have never met a woman who said what she meant, anyway. I do not think she truly expects to be sent to my bed."

"She had better not." Gwilym paused to drink. He and his sofa, after a brief separation, were on good terms again. "There are some things that should not be shared between Welshmen: wives, blood, toothaches, bad luck..."

"The French pox, lice, and hangovers," Prince Llewelyn added, nodding.

"Many women are in bad humor after having a child," Leuan said. "Doctors say it has to do with having too much black bile, but it will pass once she conceives again."

Gwilym narrowed his eyes at the priest. The step between a wife being tearful and irritable all the time, and becoming pregnant again, apparently eluded Father Leuan. “How do you want me to manage that, Father? Hold her down? Get her drunk again? What-”

“You need a son, Llwynog. I will counsel her.”

Gwilym set his goblet down harder than he intended. Either he misjudged the distance or the table rose two inches. “Your last counsel resulted in tears. Given your vast ignorance of women, I thank you to keep your counsel to yourself,” Gwilym said sharply.

“I cannot imagine why her ladyship would not welcome an angry drunkard in her bed, Llwynog,” Father Leuan said sarcastically. 

Gwilym drained the last of his wine and defiantly showed the empty goblet to the priest. Turning to Llewelyn, he asked, "What could my wife mean? I do not understand how I suddenly became an awful husband and bedmate. I would not say it to my wife, but no other woman has ever complained." 

Gwilym raised his goblet to the tavern owner. Once it was refilled, he emptied it so quickly even Llewelyn raised an eyebrow at him. Gwilym ignored Llewelyn and gestured for the owner to bring another pitcher of wine.

Duana spent all her time in the nursery, so much time the ledger was not kept and Gwilym resorted to having Gwen patch his shirts. Duana was so irritable he annoyed her by breathing, but Gwilym could make her cry by looking at her. Since he made her unhappy, he avoided her, and Llewelyn observed correctly: he drank too much. If he was not governing Gwynedd, Gwilym alternated between visiting Dafydd's tomb and the tavern, returning to Aber Castle only if he must - to eat in the kitchens, grant the peasants audience, see the baby, and sleep on the sofa. Despite his claim to Duana, he found himself watching the door of the village tavern, wondering if Muretta might come in one night. Fidelity was common - something peasants pledged - but he liked being able to tell Duana in truth there was only her. He preferred that continue to be the truth.

"I doubt Duana's poor temperament is anything you have done, Gwil," Llewelyn said. "I have seen it happen, and Father Leuan is right. It has to do with a woman not conceiving again after having a child. She is not herself."

"She certainly is not herself. I wish this woman would leave and send my Duana back. I rather liked her."

Prince Llewelyn toyed with his wine goblet. "When Duana is herself, does she laugh at your stupid riddles and jokes and puns, Gwil?"

"Those jokes and puns are genius. While my memories of seeing my wife happy are becoming hazy, I do recall some laughter."

"Your wardrobe improves along with your French; she must sew your shirts." Llewelyn looked oddly thoughtful. "I bet Lady Duana patches your wounds and fusses over your supper and pretends to listen to all your bizarre ideas, as well. Helps you hunt dragons and trap fairies and collect petrified lightning. She probably even lets you best her at chess."

"Not at present." Gwilym slurred the words. "Again, my memory has begun to fail."

Llewelyn held up his wine. The metal reflected as he turned the stem between his fingers. In French, sounding falsely-casual, he asked, "Tonight, are there guards outside your wife's bedchamber to ensure she has no visitors while you are away?"

"There are not," Gwilym answered honestly. "You know there are not. I do not question my wife's fidelity. Only her affection for me, at present."

"I envy you." Llewelyn still watched his goblet.

Joanna was not beautiful, as Tang had been, but she was Llewelyn's Christian wife, and her dowry had given him the toe-hold he needed to unite northern Wales. The Prince of Wales showed Joanna every courtesy a husband owed a Norman wife. He had been fond of her, Gwilym thought. She gave him a daughter a few years after they married, and another daughter and another. Llewelyn seemed pleased with his bouquet of little girls. Then a stillborn son. Tangwystl had died in childbirth with Rhys and his sister, leaving Llewelyn with newborn, illegitimate twins and a broken heart. Joanna had another son born too soon to live, and for years after, miscarriages.

King John battered Wales and Llewelyn battered back against his father-in-law. Llewelyn had mistresses for sport, but none for love and none for long. Then he returned from battle to find a Norman knight in Joanna's bedchamber. That, for Gwilym, would be unforgivable, and it should have meant a death sentence for high treason. For the Norman knight, it had. Llewelyn sent Joanna to an abbey while he licked his wounds but to the mystification of every man in the realm, a few months ago, he took his wife back.

Llewelyn ruled undisputed as the Prince of Wales. The English Crown was in chaos with a boy-king on the throne, and Llewelyn needed a legitimate male heir - which he was unlikely to get from Joanna. He could divorce her and marry a younger, more politically useful woman, yet he did not. He could use his children's marriages to make alliances and marry a woman of his own choosing, yet he had not.

One of Gwilym's messengers noticed the guards outside Princess Joanna's bedchamber. The messenger told Merfyn, who told Gwilym, and by now all of Aber Castle knew. Llewelyn did not go to her bed, according to the gossip, but Joanna sat beside him at the Welsh Court as his consort. It could only be because, despite everything, Llewelyn cared for his wife.

It seemed foolish. Prince Llewelyn was many things: arrogant, guarded, callous and short-sighted, sometimes. He was as stubborn as a mule and as subtle as a battering ram, but Gwilym did not take him for a fool.

Gwilym had hurt Duana, but that was as much her fault as his. She did not touch him at all now, as a lover or otherwise. It had been weeks since that night, and his pride suffered more than his body. True, Duana had been clearly pregnant by the time he returned from the last campaign but she had been interested in lovemaking. Very interested in Welsh lessons, in Gwilym's view. Perhaps once the threat of being sent back to King John had passed, so had her interest. It was not just lovemaking though, or the ledger or the hole in his sleeve. Llewelyn was right; she was not herself, and it frightened Gwilym.

Gwilym looked at his goblet. He no longer recalled how much alcohol he consumed this evening, nor the last time he passed an evening passed without doing do. His nose tingled, his lips felt too full, and he considered he was not himself, either. “The greater a man’s destiny, the greater the price,” he said. “That was Father’s saying, Llewel.”

“That was your grandfather’s saying, Llwynog,” Leuan corrected tersely. “Learned from his father, and from an older, different time.”

“It is a fine saying, Gwil.” Llewelyn emptied his cup.

“It is a pagan saying and, if heard by the wrong ears, could get you burned in London, my lords,” the priest informed them.

Now Llewelyn sat back and folded his arms in displeasure.

"Women are mysterious creatures, my lord," Leuan counseled. "They can be troublesome. Their affection can be fickle, like a hearth requiring constant tending, but they can also be strong beyond measure. They can sin, but they can also repent. Like most precious things, they require care, patience, and devotion. Give them that and, I have heard, their love is God's greatest gift to man."

Gwilym glanced at Father Leuan, and realized Leuan spoke not to him, but to Prince Llewelyn.

The Prince nodded. A second later, his inscrutable expression returned. 

"To the love of troublesome women." Gwilym raised his wine.

"Since the alternative is Pretty Gwil over there, Father-" Llewelyn filled and raised his goblet again. "To troublesome women. May we spend lifetimes delving into their mysteries."

Father Leuan frowned again, but Llewelyn and Gwilym ignored him. They divided the last of the pitcher of wine between the three cups. The night grew late, and the snow started again. The wind had picked up. Llewelyn looked at the door as it shook on its hinges, and at the two young women sitting with his knights across the room.

"The slim brunette." Llewelyn pointed at the girl on the left. "Tonight, I plan to delve deeply into her mysteries."

At his gesture, the prostitute slid off the knight's lap and approached the Prince of Wales, swaying her hips and smiling enticingly. She was far prettier, but she bore a passing resemblance to Joanna, Gwilym thought. Wisely, he did not say it.

"That is a fine choice and a fine pun," Gwilym said. His voice sounded too loud. "Provided I can find my horse, I am riding up the mountain to my own enigmatic woman." He got to his feet. Despite the stubborn swaying of the floor, he managed to put on his gray riding cloak. "Come pass the night with us, Llewel."

"It is cold outside, and the love here is guaranteed." Llewelyn reminded him, but got up. His knights finished their wine and stood as well. 

"Wrap her up and bring your love with you. The only bed in Aber Castle that comes with a woman in it is mine."

Llewelyn nodded. As one of his knights paid the tavern owner, another had the prostitutes find their cloaks. The other two men disappeared to the stable, fetching the horses and bringing them to the tavern door.

In the cold and the darkness and the chaos of squires scurrying, Gwilym noticed Father Leuan was not on his horse. Leuan stood beside the gelding, holding the reins.

Gwilym lead Goliath over and asked, "Are you pouting you did not get a girl, Leuan?"

"Give me leave to remain in the village," the priest requested. "You and Prince Llewelyn have no need of me tonight. I will see you at breakfast."

"As you wish." But Vespers and Compline had been sung. Lauds would not be for hours. Leuan could have slept in his own bed and been back before dawn. The monks of Aber would be asleep, and if Leuan wanted to pray, there was a chapel in Aber Castle.

Father Leuan bid Gwilym and Prince Llewelyn a polite goodnight, turned, and led his horse not toward the church in the center of Aber, but down the lane toward the cooper, the smith, the baker, and the candle-maker's hut. Gwilym doubted Leuan had any interest in bread, tools, or barrels this time of night, but beeswax was a possibility. The candle-maker died last year but his wife's blonde niece had been sent to help out, and so candles continued to flicker to welcome men home. In fact, the demand for candles among unmarried, wealthy tradesmen and even low-ranking noblemen increased as of late.

The niece was Manx, which stymied the Welshmen trying to court her, but Father Leuan spoke Manx-Gaelic. The wheels and pulleys of Gwilym's intoxicated brain turned, and the pieces fell into place.

"Aber Church is the other way, Father," Gwilym called. “Are you addled or drunk or besotted?” 

“Tired,” Leuan called back, his voice soft in the darkness. “Merely tired and a full of wine and wishing for a different path.”

With a hand on Goliath’s bridle to steady himself, Gwilym crunched a few steps toward Leuan. “Take a horse and invite the Manx woman to Aber Castle. Tell her the Lord of Gwynedd requires candles tonight. And the next night, and the next. How long can lust last, at your age?”

After a long silence, the priest’s voice said, “You are drunk. Do not be vulgar, Llwynog.”

Good Lord; the night was freezing and few priests remained chaste. The local bishop had more children than Llewelyn. 

Leuan could not take a woman to the monks’ quarters at the church, nor could he linger at her hearth for long before tongues started wagging. Father Leuan could not sit with her in a tavern, nor walk with her nor, unless her soul was at stake, speak to her alone outside of church.

“Leuan, this is foolishness.” Cold rather than wine began numbing Gwilym's fingers and cheeks. “What will you do? Meet in some stable? Peep in her window? Bring her to the castle. She has likely never been inside a castle. Have her sit by the fire, bring her wine. Sit and jabber at each other in Manx all night for all I care. I will manage Duana, and I certainly will not tattle on you to God or the Bishop.”

Leuan turned his horse and stalked back toward Gwilym. The wind blew his hood back and made his brown cloak billow. “I am foolish?” Leuan demanded. “Some men would trade their soul to have even what you have lost. To have lost a family, you must first have one. To lose faith, you must first have it. To lose love, you must first find it. You have no idea the blessings you have, let alone the sense to be grateful for them.”

Gwilym stood open-mouthed. White vapor seeped from his lips as if he was a dying dragon. “You are impertinent,” he said.

“I am not your subject. I am the priest of Aber, and your friend. Perhaps, your drunken friend, in the winter of my life. I want to walk this way, through the village-” Father Leuan flung a hand behind him, pointing down the narrow lane, “and see if there is a light in a certain window. That is all. I want to see who might be awake. Then I will join the monks in prayer. You are not a boy; you should not require my constant attention. Go. Enjoy your empty, purchased women, then confess to me tomorrow and complain your Christian wives neglect you. I will do what is necessary, when it is necessary, as I have sworn. Tonight, to you, I am not necessary. I have no place with you, so give me leave to go.”

The rebuke, so unlike Leuan, stung. Gwilym furrowed his brow, but said again, “As you wish. Go.” 

Leuan stood holding his gelding’s reins. Footsteps approached behind Gwilym; knights came to investigate the raised voices. Father Leuan’s chest rose and fell. He began started to speak, but turned away and led his horse into the darkness. 

Gwilym shifted his boots in the snow. “If you reach the church, pray for us poor, drunken souls besotted with troublesome women, Father,” he requested. “Speak with Saint Jude of lost causes.”

“Saint Christopher watches over the lost, Llwynog,” Leaun’s voice answered, sounding kinder. “He guides weary travelers, while Saint Thomas helps those who doubt. Have faith, and do not trouble Saint Jude yet.” 

Gwilym still held Goliath’s bridle. He watched his old friend’s back. “I will instruct the guards at the castle gate to let her pass so long as you accompany her,” Gwilym called. “If your path changes tonight. Or any night.”

The priest did not answer, even to rebuke Gwilym again. The sound of Leuan’s horse's feet, muffled by the snow, slowly faded into the cold night.

Goliath nudged Gwilym with his nose and made a deep rumbling sound in his chest. Gwilym looked back to Llewelyn and his knights. The men had the horses ready. 

"There are two girls, Gwil," Llewelyn reminded him as they mounted. Once the Prince was in the saddle, the prostitute swung up behind him. The Prince of Wales fished in his saddlebag, found a cape, and passed is back to her. She thanked him as she tied it around her shoulders. She pressed close to Llewelyn and put one arm around his waist to hold on. Her other hand snaked under Llewelyn's fur mantle and came to rest on his inner thigh, rubbing. 

The second young woman looked around as if unsure which man she was supposed to be with - or at least, which man got to be first. She was dark-haired as well, and more lush: full breasts, round hips and, Gwilym suspected, the first hint of a pregnant belly. The women were sisters; their parents had died and the tavern owner was some distant relative. Gwilym remembered the girls being small, nine and ten when Dafydd was six or seven. In fact, he remembered Dafydd trading the younger girl a pear for a kiss.

Dafydd would have been fifteen. If Dafydd was here, Gwilym would make sure the second girl went to him and Llewelyn's knights could find their own entertainment.

Gwilym closed his eyes, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He had drunk far too much; the thoughts left momentarily but regrouped, gathered strength, and pushed back.

"Gwil," Llewelyn prompted impatiently. The Prince's horse pranced in place. “A girl?”

"Oh, I prefer a challenge," Gwilym assured Llewelyn. Snow stung his face as he turned Goliath toward the steep white road leading home.

The captain of Llewelyn's knights helped the second prostitute scramble onto the saddle in front of him. He pulled his heavy riding cloak over both of them against the winter night, and whispered into her ear, grinning. Whatever he said, she giggled.

Duana told Gwilym he needed a new riding cloak, but he liked his old gray one. Duana was right. He felt frozen and empty and, despite the friendly, boisterous men around him, utterly alone.

Llewelyn signaled his knights, and they rode up the hill to the castle with the squires running behind. According to the guards, Leuan did not return to Aber Castle until morning. Where Father Leuan spent the night, Gwilym never found out. Gwilym even asked the monks of Aber, and discovered it had not been with them.

*~*~*~* 

The demons haunting Gwilym’s dreams must also still prowl Duana's. Hearing her frightened cries, he dropped his money purse and dagger on the desk, took a candle, and stumbled to the bedchamber. He pushed the bed curtains open but found a rumpled, empty bed. 

Gwilym studied the mattress while far, far too much wine muddied his thinking. That final bottle found him all at once rather than a cup at a time.

“Duana?” 

He heard ragged breathing from shadows on the far side of the room. He found Duana in her chemise, cowering on the floor on the other side of the bed.

He went to her, set the candle aside, and squatted down unsteadily. He repeated her name. She opened her eyes and tried to scramble backward, against the tapestry on the stone wall. Whatever nightmare creature stalked her, she looked so frightened Gwilym glanced behind him to ensure nothing lurked there.

Gwilym held up his hands, palms toward her, showing he would not harm her. “Wake, Cariad. You are dreaming,” he said without touching her. “It is William. Wake up. I will not let anyone hurt you.”

He saw her blink a few times, and study him uncertainly in the candlelight. “William?”

“It is William. You were having a nightmare.”

“Are you my William?” she asked in a shuddery little voice.

“I am yours alone,” he promised. 

Duana’s arms went tight around his neck and shoulders, and her wet face pressed against his shoulder. “Something hurt you. Tortured you. I heard you screaming for me, pleading for help, but I could not get to you. And then this evil thing came for me.”

He put his arms around her. Her skin felt hot and damp as if she emerged from a bath. He kissed her cheek. The skin tasted of salty tears. “You see the future. My aching head will torture me in the morning,” he said lightly. “Come. I have you. You are safe.”

He lifted her less than elegantly, but maneuvered her up and onto the bed. He started to move back but she clung to him, still trembling.

“Hush, Duana, hush.” He murmured and stroked her back. The snow had melted from his boots but, except for his cloak, he remained dressed. Dressed in the same tunic and breeches he had worn when he left for St. Mary’s a week ago, dirty from the road and damp from the snowstorm. “You are safe. I am here, and largely whole, and yours alone. Keep pressing those breasts against me, if you want to discover the extent of my devotion.”

She sniffed and loosened her death grip on his neck. “You smell like a tavern.”

He pulled a fur cover around her and sat on the mattress. "With good reason. I was with Llewel, who seems to be taking the longest, slowest route possible home from Llandudno. His knights are downstairs with a girl from the tavern, giving my dogs and squire something to watch."

She sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve. She did not ask about Llewelyn’s knights, either not understanding or not caring.

"Eimile is in her cradle in my office," he said. "Llewelyn is in your bed tonight, at my invitation, so your fears proved well-founded. Fortunately, as I requested, you are here." He stroked her face. "I am glad you obeyed, pretty girl."

“I am glad you are home." 

“Are you?” He kissed her hand. The bed curtains remained open, and the single candle on the coffer cast gentle yellow shadows across her flushed face. He leaned closer, kissing her warm cheek and the curve of her ear. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

She nodded and sniffed again. “I am not with child.”

“And you seek my assistance in this matter?” 

Even to his eyes, her second nod was less convincing.

Still, he pulled off his boots and tunic, and crawled onto the mattress beside her. He lay staring at the canopy for a moment. “You are correct, Cariad. This bed spins. See someone secures the posts to the floor in the morning.” He took her hand. “Careful you do not fall.”

“Mary, mother of God,” Duana muttered. She removed her hand from his and rolled away. 

He exhaled loudly and moved so he spooned up behind her. Putting his arms around her, he promised, “I will hold you. Keep you safe.”

Her heart pounded like a rabbit’s.

“Are you afraid?” he asked. “Of me?”

He stroked her shoulder. She did not flinch, but a moment passed before she answered, “I dreamed some horrible, evil thing hurt you, William. I could not help you, and I could not escape it. I hate those dreams, and I hate when you are away.”

"You are safe. There are guards on the castle walls and at the gates. I can station guards outside the office, if you like. No one will hurt you here," he promised. “Not even their evil souls can harm you again.”

“It feels as if they can.” She whispered like she told a secret.

The alcohol warmed his belly but Gwilym pulled another blanket over Duana. "I would kill them if I could, Cariad. If the evil in nightmares was flesh, I would kill it, and your dreams would stop."

"Sometimes evil is flesh, William." She moved closer. "Sometimes evil is handsome young men with fine horses and armor and mysterious, foreign languages."

"Tell me about this evil so I will recognize it, if it dares enter my dreams." 

“You are drunk,” she said rather than answering. “Tomorrow morning, you will not even remember stumbling home.”

“I am drunk and lonely, missing one son and lacking another - but I do remember I passed through Dublin and Dover several times as a young man. I am a fool for pretty girls with big, blue eyes. I should have thrown you across my saddle and taken you home. Then it would have been me, as you said you wanted."

She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and her breathing slowed. "Gwen tells stories of you. You would have ridden past me and never stopped."

Although that was true, he said, "Try me and see." 

Duana looked at him as if deciding whether to tolerate this silliness or send him to the sofa to sleep and sober up. Eventually, she replied, "If you are the knight following me, you waste your breath and charm. Keep your flowers and sweets and trinkets, as well. I am betrothed to a man in Dublin, and I do not understand anything you Normans say. My brothers speak some French. Go find one of them. I only want my father to finish your castle so we can go home."

She rolled away. As if pursuing her, he scooted across the mattress and curled up behind her again. "Do not insult me; I am a Welshman. King John sent the Welsh archers to Dublin with his soldiers. He wants us to remain in Dover, but I am returning home. My men will stay; I am riding to Wales."

"Welsh, Norman: all you soldiers look alike. You all jabber in your foreign tongues and take whatever appeals to you. I cannot tell the difference."

"You can tell us by our swords. We Welsh are larger and more skilled in a tight spot." He shifted his hips against her bottom to demonstrate. 

She shifted away again. "Fine. You and your big sword are Welsh. I am sure it is a fine sword, but put it away and good day and ride on, Sir Welshman." 

"Oh, but I am wounded. A very angry, though very inaccurate Irishman, remember?" 

She pushed up on her forearms and looked back at him. Her hair fell around her face. For the first time in months, he heard her old laugh. "Are you?"

Gwilym lay – largely flopped – back on the mattress, spread eagle. "Will you see to my wound before I fall out of my saddle with fever?"

She considered for a moment, and scooted toward him. "I suppose I can. My mother is a midwife and good with herbs. I know how to tend a wound. If you are so ill, you are probably harmless. Why are you riding with such a wound? Are you in a hurry to get home?"

"A messenger says my father has been injured, but there is more. I have what Normans call a mistress - a hearth wife - and she awaits a child any day. I will tell you a secret, pretty girl." He sat up long enough to whisper in her ear, "She has an older boy, but this baby is mine, I think. In fact, I am almost sure of it. My first child."

Duana lay down with him. Her fingers toyed with the front of his wrinkled shirt. "You are teasing me. You are too young a man to be married."

"Not married; it is different. A pagan rather than a Christian marriage. I am..." Gwilym paused to count. "...Five and twenty or so. If you are fourteen or fifteen, I am five or six and twenty, and living with Diana, much to my father's annoyance. He wants me to negotiate to marry some Scottish noblewoman, but Dafydd is small and my daughter is about to be born."

She rested her palm on his heart. "Diana will be dead when you return. Your father will soon follow her."

Gwilym nodded. He had not planned this discussion to be about him but Duana dammed conversations so they flowed around her life rather than through it.

"You loved her."

"I thought I did. I did," he admitted. "She was so lovely: tall, with black hair and soft brown eyes. I would have given anything if she had loved me in return. Only me. For a time, I think she did, but... Diana loved powerful men. I was a powerful man but there were others while I was away."

Gwilym had never confessed to another soul he had stayed with a woman he knew betrayed him. Because of Dafydd, because of pride. He had no place to judge Prince Llewelyn’s folly with Joanna. 

"She was a fool, William."

He looked away, into the shadows. "We were both fools. I loved pretty women. She was one of those women but, despite my pledge, not the only one. But I was with Diana all winter, and I knew about the baby and I wanted to be... Better." He summed it up in one word. "I could not marry Diana in the Church, but she was my hearth wife and my child's mother, and I could treat her more kindly. One of those other pretty women - one barely more than a girl - she did not like losing my affection. And money and favor. She quarreled with Diana and claimed Diana bewitched me. I ordered her away and thought the matter over, but Diana– She did not endear herself to people. That year the rye and barley crops failed, and that girl told everyone Diana bewitched the fields. Father and I were away at war. A group of peasants encircled Diana's house and set a fire. Dafydd and the baby got out; Diana did not. After I buried Diana, buried my father... I was the Lord of Gwynedd and I ordered that young woman found and hanged. What my knights did with her between the finding and the hanging..." He shrugged one shoulder, as he had a decade ago.

Images seeped from the depths of his memory. He saw the girl, perhaps twenty, abused by his men, unable to comprehend the link between her jealous accusations and the noose awaiting her. He heard her sobbing and pleading for mercy. Gwilym had been holding Tyna, and Dafydd clung to his leg. Otherwise the new Lord of Aber might have taken a turn. Hurt her. Make her submit, make her promise anything, do anything – and hang her anyway. In hindsight, a dark part of him regretted he had not raped her. He had only watched her hang.

All those years ago, no one judged Gwilym guilty of Diana's death, though he was. Guilty of lust, guilty of deceit, guilty of neglect. No one passed sentence on him. Not then. 

Now, Gwilym exhaled and smelled the wine on his own breath. "I have stories with happy endings. Just not that story," he said to the shadowy canopy over his marriage bed. "That one has moral lessons and more nightmares, I suppose."

Duana's hand explored the angles of his stubbly face. “That is a sad story. Tell me your name Welshman, and perhaps I will take pity on you.”

“Sir William. Lord William. If Father is dead, I am Lord William of Aber, who continues to exist out of duty. Because of a sword and a title, a cradle and a promise. I love my son, but he is not truly my blood, pretty Irish girl.” A wave of drunken moroseness passed over him. “I have two motherless children and an empty castle, and a sword I wanted my father to carry another ten years. What do you think I should do? Marry this Scottish noblewoman I have never met? Ride off to fight some endless war in some distant land? Take up the Pope’s Crusade?” He turned toward her and rested his hand on her waist. “Or, while I am drunk, should I pull you across my saddle and into my tent tonight, and bring home a mother for my children and comfort for myself?”

“Is that what you want?” Beneath the blankets, she shifted closer. He felt her breasts against his chest and her hand low on his abdomen. “Shall I comfort you, Lord William?”

“If you want to be my hearth wife, in truth, I have a discomfort I would like you to remedy.” He kissed her, caressing her breast as he urged her lips apart. “Can you manage that, pretty girl? I have never been with one so young. Do you know how to please a man?”

He kissed her again, long and slow, like the winter storm passing outside. The pleasant pressure in his groin contrasted with the languid warmth and heaviness of the rest of him. He touched beneath her chemise: the roundness of her hip and the soft curls between her legs.

He stripped off his shirt and had Duana untie the lace of his breeches and the brasiers underneath. Undress him. He closed his eyes as she caressed his bare cock, running her hand up and down the length. He shifted his feet and tilted his head back at the pleasure of it.

“Welshmen do have large swords. You must tell me what to do, my lord,” her voice requested as her hand continued to stroke. 

“Do you know how to use your mouth?”

After a pause, she answered, “Only this,” as she touched him. “Do you like this, my lord?”

“I do. You do it well. Those are some fortunate Irish boys.”

“One boy,” she stipulated. “Once.”

Gwilym opened his eyes, looked at her, and chuckled.

“I let him see my breasts,” Duana said. “He told me I was pretty.”

“Show these pretty breasts to me, as well. Undress.”

She untied the neck of her chemise and pulled it over her head. In the candlelight, her breasts were full and lovely, and her hair a collection of wild curls. She looked like a beautiful woman, and in no way like a teenage girl. A beautiful woman with a baby not three months old in the next room.

“Did you show this boy your cunny as well as your pretty breasts?” he asked in the candlelight, as the winter storm punished the shutters. “Let him touch it? Put his finger in it? Put his prick in it?”

He reached forward, touching the area in question. 

Her hand left his cock. “William, you are so drunk. No. I was fourteen; he was fifteen. It was childish silliness.”

“But you did show him?” he persisted, amused. “He shows you; you show him. That is the usual arrangement. Did you show him? Or did you touch him and show him your little breasts and run away like a silly girl?”

Duana answered by not answering.

He cupped his palm against the warm nest of dark auburn hair. “Did you want him to touch you?” he asked. “Like you touch yourself? Like this?” He slid his finger inside her. Her body felt slick and hot. He pushed two fingers up and inside her. “Did you touch yourself and let him watch?”

“Is this what Welsh knights do with girls they carry back to their beds, Lord William? Interrogate them?”

He slid his fingers deep inside her, making her cry out, and gasp. In pleasure, he judged. “We do. We interrogate them. We scrutinize them on their backs for hours. And ugly girls: we scrutinize them on their hands and knees.” He fucked her with his fingers. “But I want to watch you. Tell me, does that hurt? Do you like it, even if it does?”

Her thighs trembled as she said, “Your hands are large, my lord.”

“My prick is larger.” With his fingers still inside her, he leaned close and whispered, “Are you a virgin?”

After a second, her head nodded hesitantly.

“I have no taste for little girls, Cariad. I want a woman. A wife. A son.”

She nodded again.

“I want you. Show me you want me.” Gwilym lay back against the pillows and gestured for her to come to him. He pulled her close and, with a lion’s share of several pitchers of wine still fueling him, instructed, “Be atop me. Let me watch you take my prick inside you. As slowly as you like, but all of it.”

He felt the heat of her sex against the top of his cock, and at the tight entrance to her body. She sank down and gasped again.

“Do not stop,” he urged hoarsely, as her face contorted in pleasure and pain. “You mother must have told you it would hurt at first.” He caressed her breast and put a hand on her hip, urging her on. “Open your legs and take my prick inside you. Love me, pretty girl, even if it hurts.”

She rocked against him, flushed, her back arched, and her hips lowering inch by inch to his. 

He kissed her, putting his arms around her and thrusting up as she sank down. She gasped and cried out and said his name. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders and hair. Her breasts felt slick against his chest. A remote region of his addled mind realized she must still be nursing Eimile.

Her thighs trembled again and she cried out his name, and repeated it as her orgasm came. He heard her say she loved him.

“Do not stop.” He thrust upward hard, deep inside her, and pulled her hips against his. So close. “Almost. Do not stop,” he repeated.

As commanded, she did not stop. Her breathing sounded ragged. Her body trembled and convulsed. She reached orgasm again, so loudly Llewelyn likely heard across the hall. Whatever she said as she thrust against him was incoherent but he did not care. The pressure inside him peaked and, with a spasm, emptied deep inside her again and again. And again. And one last wave of pleasure before he fell back, spent and gasping. Duana collapsed on his chest, a sweaty, panting, boneless creature with his cock softening inside her.

Their bed continued to slowly spin.

“By Christ’s bones, I hope pleasure counts toward sons. Because if we have not made one tonight, we will never get one,” Gwilym told the canopy over the bed once he managed to catch his breath. “What do you think of lovemaking with a Welshman, pretty Irish girl? I think that a nice introduction, and you a convincing actress.”

Duana rolled off him and to the mattress, where she lay staring at the same canopy. “I am so embarrassed.” 

“Wait and, if I remember this, we can be embarrassed together in the morning. Tonight, I remain too full of wine.”

“William, it was your notion. If you ever tell a soul about what we did – Sir Melvin, Prince Llewelyn, anyone – I will poison your tea. You must take this night with you to the grave.”

“You fear I will tell? I will buy you a dress entirely of velvet if you forgo confessing this folly to Father Leuan.” He sighed and turned his face toward her. The candle on the corner coffer had burned down to a stub. “Did you truly touch a boy and let him look at you, when you were a girl?”

“Blessed Virgin, no.” She looked flushed and scandalized. “I once kissed a neighbor boy for a pear, though. I was nine.”

Gwilym chuckled drunkenly. “I am not in Leuan’s good graces this evening, but have we at least reached the seventy days deemed acceptable by the Church?”

Her head nodded. “Only just. Why is Father Leuan cross with you?”

“I am not certain, but do not trouble yourself about it.”

He pulled a blanket of both of them as his skin began to cool. As the wind whistled and sleep circled, Gwilym felt Duana take his hand.

“I want you to come home,” Duana requested quietly. “Wherever you are going, whatever you are doing, I would like you to come home. To me. Your wife. I know you are hurting, and I have caused this hurt. That knowledge is not pleasant, William. Comforting you comforts me, and I would like to try.”

Gwilym blinked a few times. “I will come home. To you.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and laid her hand on his heart, as she often did as they slept.

Father Leuan was dead wrong. Gwilym knew exactly the blessings he had and, even drunk, possessed the sense to be thankful for them.

*~*~*~*

The lessons came easily as a youth: parry, thrust, deflect, sidestep, crosscut, turn. Fit the arrow, draw the bow; raise the shield, twist the knife. After more than twenty years Gwilym's muscles had learned moves repeated thousands upon thousands of times so well he swore his dead body would keep fighting a full ten minutes if he ever lost his head.

Welsh knights still learned to fight man against man. Swords, maces, spears, axes, and arrows suited the harsh terrain better than heavily armored knights. Gwilym thought it was a little taste of Hell to watch Death move across the battlefield dragging his bloody cloak behind him, taking the enemy one by one. Normans thought of war as sport, but to kill the enemy while looking in his eyes: that kind of battle held little glory.

The ability to blend strategy with skill and to travel quickly and lightly was old-fashioned - barbaric - according to the English and French. The world moved on and Wales had not moved with it. Ambushes, raids, stealth, and battle-hardened men who fought for their own land and lives instead of for God or honor: the Normans said they lacked chivalry and grace. They might, but Gwilym and his countrymen preferred to be laughed at as free heathens than revered as the noble dead.

As a teenage boy, Gwilym witnessed a tournament during his first trip to London. Knights in armor so heavy and cumbersome they had to be lifted onto a horse had taken great pride in unseating each other with lances.

"Who taught these men how to fight?" Gwilym had asked Merfyn, who nursed a hangover from their exploits at the Southwark brothels the previous night. "Why bother to ride out to joust with him? Wait until he has to piss. He will get down and, in all that armor, I could just tip him over."

Father Leuan had shushed him, probably saving Gwilym from being hanged by a mob of insulted noblemen, but Gwilym spoke the truth. The Norman ways of war were laughable in Wales. In seven and thirty years, no one had ever offered Gwilym a lady's hanky for knocking another man off a horse with a lance, but he always returned from battle only a little worse for wear.

Until last summer. The arrow that passed through his shoulder had done damage not obvious to the eye. For months Gwilym thought it would heal. His shoulder mended quickly, thanks to Duana, but his grip-

"Gwilym!" Merfyn said sharply. He brought Gwilym's attention to the present as Gwilym spared with a young knight in the inner bailey. "How is the arm?"

Merfyn prowled around the two men, looking worried.

"Tiring." Gwilym still deflected the blows easily with the wooden practice sword but Merfyn's man was not truly trying to kill him. "Take pity on me."

"I will tell the next Norman you encounter. Lord Gwilym's right hand may fall asleep, so move slowly as you try to run him through. The Lady Dana can write a note and pin it to your shirt: 'please-"

Snorting, Gwilym swung his sword hard. Numbness shot up from his fingertips as he made contact with the knight's shield. He managed to keep his grip on the hilt. He backed away a few steps, buying himself some time.

"Back farther," Merfyn ordered, hands on his hips. Gwilym skipped backward a few more feet. "If you must lower your sword, get out of the reach of his. Do not look at your hand. You know where it is even if you cannot feel it. Do not give yourself away. Shield up. Think about defending yourself until you can attack again."

Gwilym tried to focus, to do as Merfyn instructed, and to compensate for a right arm useless at the moment.

"Do not drop your shield," the sergeant ordered as Gwilym considered discarding it to grab his sword with both hands. "Shield up. Forget about your right hand until you can use it again. Close your stance! You know your opponent will overcut, so expect it. Use your wits. Keep a hold on your sword and stay behind it; the feeling will return. Do not strike-"

Gwilym spun around, using the momentum to strike, and the young knight knocked Gwilym's sword out of his hand effortlessly.

"-until you can feel your hand again," Merfyn said as his knight pointed the blunt tip of the practice sword at Gwilym's throat. "Now you are dead."

"Shit." Gwilym gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply. "Damn it!" He picked up the wooden sword from the icy cobblestones. It weighed far less than the one he used in battle yet he still struggled to keep his fingers tight around it. "Again."

"Enough for today," Merfyn said.

"He is younger, faster." Gwilym pointed his practice sword at the young knight, who looked truly sorry he won this bout against the Lord of Gwynedd. Given a second chance, he appeared eager to lose.

"You are taller, your sword and reach are longer, and you have been in more battles than he has been in women," Merfyn shot back. "You know every trick I can teach you, Llwynog, and you should have won easily."

"Again," Gwilym insisted. His blood pounded hot in his ears. "You and me this time, Merfyn. As we used to."

"Enough!"

Entering the winter of his life himself, Merfyn recognized the look in Lord Gwilym's eyes: fear. The fear his body began to fail him and the rest of the world would move on, leaving him behind. 

"The strength and speed are there, and the numbness comes less and less often. In time, you may still heal," the old man assured him. Merfyn dismissed the young knight. "I have seen such injuries before. Have patience and try not to get killed. Your impatience is your biggest weakness, I think, not your hand."

Defeated, Gwilym followed Merfyn into the castle, and settled beside the hearth in the great room to sulk. A hound ambled over and rested a graying muzzle on his knee.

"I will practice again tomorrow," Gwilym said to Merfyn. Duana approached with two cups of tea in her hands and the rest of his dogs at her heels. "Early. Before we leave for Christmas Court." 

Merfyn nodded in agreement. "If it does not snow. The Lady Dana does not allow sparring in the great hall, and I am too old to spar in a blizzard, even for you." Understanding Gwilym's restlessness, he continued. "You are better than many men you are likely to meet in battle, even if the feeling does not return."

Gwilym focused on the blazing fire but wished Merfyn would shut his mouth in Duana's hearing. It did not matter they spoke quickly in colloquial Welsh; Duana would only have to catch a few words to understand. 

"Perhaps it is my fault, perhaps I made a poor choice, but I never tried to make a warrior of you, Llwynog. You are one of the best soldiers I ever trained but I did not teach you to love the kill. I saw more in you as a boy - a spark - and I did not have the heart to snuff it out and have you glory in bloodshed. Instead, I taught you to fight with your mind as well as your sword, how to lead armies and command respect rather than to follow blindly. I have been proud to fight beside you and I have always known you killed only because you had to." 

Merfyn was trying to comfort Gwilym and not succeeding, although he did not understand why. Duana lingered in the shadows as he prattled on. 

"You fight with your head and your heart. For you, that is as it should be. Your season as a warrior will pass. This wound may heal but even you cannot outwit time. It is a passage, like your first battle or woman. Do not fear it, because your fear will eat at you." 

Gwilym looked at his fingers. He watched the miraculous way the tendons flowed over the joints as the feeling began returning to his right hand. 

"Llwynog-"

"Stop! Do not call me that," Gwilym snapped. "I am not a boy; do not speak to me as if I am." 

Realizing he raised his voice and Duana could not follow such a quick conversation, Gwilym reached his tingling hand out for her, letting her know she was not the focus of his anger. Duana took it. He pulled her close and put his arm around her waist as she stood beside him.

The gesture surprised Merfyn. He had never seen such an open display of affection between them. Gwilym could touch his wife whenever and wherever he wanted, but he had always been private with women. Even in taverns, Gwilym never had a girl squirming and giggling on his lap for all to see.

Obviously, Gwilym adored his wife, and there was much to adore. Lady Duana was not the willowy, golden-haired doe in fashion in stories and at Court, but fashion was for men who needed beauty pointed out to them. Merfyn was content with his own wife and too old to be pining over some girl - as Leuan was - but Merfyn was not dead.

He watched as Gwilym brushed his fingers over her flat stomach, toying with the fabric of her gown. "Votre temps? Vous n'etes pas avec l'enfant? Non?" Gwilym asked, looking at her.

"Non," Duana answered in French, with her eyes sad. "Je regret."

Gwilym murmured something sounding comforting in the jumble of French and Welsh unique to the two of them, but which Merfyn did not understand. To the old man's open-mouthed surprise, Duana sat on Gwilym's lap and leaned her head against his shoulder. 

"Leave us," Gwilym ordered Merfyn. Gwilym put his arms around his wife and focused his gaze on the fire. 

*~*~*~*

"Does he always do this?" Joanna whispered to her husband as she watched Lord William watch Lady Duana across the noisy banquet hall. Amid the minstrels and jesters and drunken noble guests reveling in the chaotic Welsh Christmas Court, William's eyes seldom left his wife for more than a few seconds. "The way he looks at her is unsettling." 

"Gwilym? Lord William?" Llewelyn asked. He grew bored with the festivities and focused primarily on the wine. "Yes. He probably always does."

"I do not like it." Though William was handsome, he unnerved Joanna. And, as he had been doing since he and his wife arrived, William spoke bluntly and of the oddest things. Joanna could not imagine what it must be like to be married to him. "It seems... It is impolite. How he watches her."

"Be thankful you are my wife instead of his," the Prince of Wales replied tersely. "Hush. William speaks French fairly well and he has sharp ears."

Joanna gritted her teeth but managed to say amicably, "I am thankful to be your wife." 

Her husband did not respond but he gave their wine goblet a break, setting it on the table. She picked it up, part sipping, part toying with it. 

Still watching the revelers, particularly Lord William's wife, Llewelyn leaned his face close to hers and whispered, "Are you?"

Joanna answered, "Yes," and added, "But hush me again as if I have not been the Princess of Wales for a decade, and I may repay you later."

"If I visit your bed tonight, Briela,” he answered, using his old nickname for her, “I pray, please do." 

Thinking he taunted her, Joanna said sarcastically, "Oh, I will let down my hair and wait breathlessly."

Llewelyn did not respond to that, but said instead, "Call Lady Duana over if you are curious. She speaks French well. I asked William to bring her so you could meet her."

Joanna watched the petite, elaborately dressed, auburn-haired woman. She tried to blend into the walls instead of watching the acrobats or listening to the minstrel. She still attracted male attention, though it was more discreet. Lord William was known as quite a warrior, and it was unwise to flirt with his wife in his presence. The Welshmen knew that but a visiting Norman lord got sent sprawling across the floor for some act of chivalry William deemed insulting. The wine flowed and the cultures clashed for hours, so Lord William and the Norman lord were the seventeenth of twenty fights so far, by Joanna's count and, lacking swords or daggers, certainly not the most exciting.

"She reminds me of another woman. A dead one. Was that the reason you asked Lord William to bring her?" she asked, falsely casual. "To meet me?"

"Yes. To meet you," the Prince answered as casually. 

He could not tell if Joanna was appeased about Duana, but she did not pursue the topic. She asked instead, "She was my father's mistress?"

"No," Llewelyn replied too quickly. "As I understand it, Duana was taken from Dover as a spoil of war. She is Irish, but her father was at Dover Castle that year, and had her with him. Do you remember Count Walter Pembroke? Your father's adviser? His son, FitzWalter, is about your age."

Joanna shook her head. She left London too young to know the political players at court or how cruel King John could be. When Llewelyn said her father hanged the Welsh boys and caged Gruffydd, Joanna insisted there was some mistake. Her loving father would not do that, like he would not send his fourteen-year-old illegitimate daughter to a Welsh warlord's bed to seal a treaty. 

Llewelyn took a deep breath, feeling the alcohol warming his face. He told Joanna, "It is said to have caused quite a scandal. Pembroke and his stepson were both in love with her. Pembroke finally banished the stepson, I think. I never met the boy. I met Pembroke a few times. He adored Duana. After he died, I saw her at court and thought her a good match for William. It seems she is. Lady Duana had a baby girl last fall, and Will is hoping for a son soon." 

"She is Gaelic royalty?"

"She is a mason's daughter, William says."

Joanna almost dropped their wine cup. "A count and a lord, both without a dowry?" She sputtered. "Why, she is a peasant!" Having spent her youth expecting to marry a stranger for a political alliance, Joanna could not fathom two powerful men marrying for no gain except a woman. "The world is full of pretty peasants."

"It is," he agreed. "But some things, even a nobleman cannot buy. True devotion is a rare thing in a pretty woman. At a certain age - or when we have had it and lost it - we men began to appreciate it."

Thinking she understood, she said gently, "I should not have said that a moment ago, about Griffith's mother being gone. I am sorry. Do you still miss her?"

"I do, sometimes." Bolstered by wine, he put his hand over hers, the gesture of a lover rather than a husband. "But I would miss you, as well, Briela." 

The words were barely out of Llewelyn's mouth before he glanced around to see who used his voice. Not finding anyone, he worried his tongue against his teeth as he pressed his lips firmly together, perplexed.

She looked at Llewelyn, at his hand, and at him again, trying to decide what to make of this.

Joanna loved the chivalry of the French and the London court, but chivalrous the Prince of Wales was not. Their marriage was a practical arrangement, and that was how Llewelyn treated her: politely, honorably, fondly, but practically. Joanna had been an awkward teenage girl, all elbows and romantic notions. She quickly realized her intimidating new husband, a decade her senior, had a family with a beautiful, auburn-haired woman in the next village. He waited several years to bed Joanna and to her humiliation, did so because her father threatened an annulment. She loved him but practically, Joanna should not expect Prince Llewelyn to love her. Wales was his great love, and she told herself she made her peace with that. 

As many times as Joanna swore to Llewelyn the Norman knight had not been invited to her bedchamber, she had not called for the guards upon discovering him there. She let the man stay, flattering her, speaking fondly of her father and telling her of London and Paris. Making her feel pretty and wanted rather than the end result of a bad trade. Llewelyn had been off somewhere: conquering something or praying at Tangwystl’s tomb or counting his bastards. Joanna lost track of time and cups of mulled wine. The knight was in her bed when Llewelyn walked in, and the same knight dangled from a rope, dead, thirty minutes later. 

Practically, Llewelyn should have hanged her too, but he had not.

She thought of something to say in return. "I could send a messenger to my brother. I could ask young King Henry if he will release Griffith. Or even let you see him. Perhaps he will consider it. May I do that?"

Mentioning his children with Tangwystl was a tricky thing. Despite them running around the castle, competing with her daughters for Llewelyn's attention, Llewelyn acted as if she was not supposed to notice them. Joanna wondered who her husband thought assigned nurses and tutors, bandaged scrapes, mended broken hearts, and watched over them. Even before their mother's death, before they came come to live in the castle, there was no overlooking them. Llewelyn never chastised Joanna, but each time she gave him a daughter - or worse, no child at all - someone would comfort her with "Well, there is Griffith."

In the past, Llewelyn would have told her it was not her place to meddle in politics. This time he nodded once, curtly, as if she was one of his knights. "You may send a messenger."

She nodded in return. "All right."

Joanna resumed watching Lady Duana across the room, and so Llewelyn watched along with her, his hand still warm over hers. 

"You did not come to me because you watched Tangwystl die." She realized it after several minutes of silence and announced it aloud before she thought. She understood why he did not bother to sleep with her now but years ago, Joanna had miscarried shortly after Tangwystl died. Joanna remained dangerously fevered for a week. Once the physicians agreed Llewelyn could come to her again, he had not. Not for months and months. Then, he might stumble to her bed if he had been drinking or late at night, as something weighed on his mind. Each time, each pregnancy, the result was the same. Then, it would be months and months again. Joanna thought Llewelyn did not want her, but perhaps he wanted her very much.

Llewelyn turned his head to look at her, perhaps vaguely surprised, but his expression otherwise unreadable. After an uncomfortable moment, without speaking, he resumed watching the jugglers, seeming bored.

His hand remained on hers.

Even if she guessed the truth, he would never admit it. She was surprised at him saying he would miss her if she died. Llewelyn did not falter or wince or apologize. With battlefield injuries, he might concede discomfort if the gash was large enough, but not in public. She had seen him hold a stillborn son, expressionlessly examining the body before he gave it back to the midwife. His face was the same when he married her as when he found her with another man as when he let her return to Dolwyddelan Castle. He seemed so invincible it was easy to forget he was not.

He was woundable, and she had wounded him. She wished so much she could undo all the harm she had done, but since she could not and he did not care to let her try, in the interest of peace, she let the subject go. 

"Covet," she said as if talking to herself. "That is the word for how he looks at her. Lord William covets his own wife."

"I think you are correct."

"Whatever for? She is his wife. He can have her whenever he wants."

"You are my wife; I can have your body if I want," Llewelyn answered evenly. "That does not mean I do not covet your affection."

Joanna turned and stared at him, her mouth open. He was either drunk, insane, or bewitched. "My affection is always at your disposal, my lord husband," Joanna promised, blushing. "Immediately, if you like."

Llewelyn's heavy wooden chair squeaked backward against dais as he stood. Holding his wife's hand, he bid their noble guests a hasty goodnight.

*~*~*~* 

Trying not to lose her way in the unfamiliar twists and turns of Dolwyddelan Castle, Duana tiptoed past the sounds of passion and rhythmic snores. She stepped carefully over the guests in the hallway who had not made it to their pallets. Visitors, even nobility, either bedded down where they could find space or were left where they passed out. Couples moved by wine or lust had all the seclusion shadows or a hastily hung curtain offered and were politely ignored by anyone who might overhear. 

Duana thought nothing of having servants in their bedchamber, but at his own castle, William was private. Prince Llewelyn's or William’s men might get drunk and boisterous with their women in the great hall at Aber, but her husband did not. The dogs were allowed in the bedchamber with her at night, but no one else. Except William, of course. William bathed first, brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth, and bolted the door. And asked; she was still surprised he asked. He never sent for her, never ordered her. He came to her himself and he asked.

William told Duana he planned to sleep near the hearth with the other men and catch up on the gossip and boasting, but she had a difficult time identifying her particular man among the huddled, drunken masses. So far Duana had interrupted seven couples, including Father John sitting in the shadows with a tall blonde woman, but she could not find William.

As far as she could tell, he was not among the men asleep on pallets in the great room. She should go back to Princess Joanna's bedchamber and ignore the sounds behind the closed bed curtains. William would have invited Duana if he wanted her company tonight. 

If William was not here, he did not wish to be found.

He had always done it: she would wake in the morning and he would be gone. He would leave a message saying he went to settle a dispute between his serfs or gone hunting or a girl who might be his daughter had been found. Until lately, William was away so often he gave her his signet ring; she could handle his correspondence and accounts, signing his name as she saw fit. His kingdom was large, she told herself. Wherever he went, it was farther than a day's ride. Perhaps deer were scarce this winter. Sir Melvin and the other men found plenty of venison and rabbit and fowl, but William came home from 'hunting' empty-handed. She asked him to come home at night and, for the last month, if he was in Aber, he arrived home by supper. He stayed and slept with her, making love sometimes, but always keeping watch.

No Christian soul would not go out in the blizzard raging tonight. Gwilym could be no place except inside Prince Llewelyn's castle, in some locked bedchamber. 

Fidelity was her vow, not William's. Would she rather he brought a mistress into his castle and presented her with a few bastard children to raise? He told Duana she would not find another woman in their bed; he kept his promises to her. That was William: cunning but truthful, even in adultery.

Duana told herself this was better: some visiting noblewoman whose name she would never know. Even so, her face burned with shame. He did this because of her. Duana saw women watching William, but he said he wanted no bedmate except her. William did not tell his secrets lightly. Duana knew she hurt him after Eimile came - hurt his pride rather than his body by her hesitance. She left him without really leaving him, and she did not know how to make it right.

She would build a wall around this man if she could, and dare anyone else to try to harm him or take from him again. She would cut her hand and have it bleed feeling back into his - though she was not supposed to know about that. She would take his sword and stand at the border of Gwynedd and challenge anyone who thought of crossing into their lives again. To say she loved him was like using words to describe a sunrise: hopelessly inadequate. 

How could he not resent her, not want to find comfort with another? King John would not have thought to execute David unless the King knew Duana carried Eimile. William's heir died because of her. And why execute one child when dozens of Welsh boys were being fostered at the English Court? Wales had been in rebellion; hang them all and make an example of what happens to vassals who disobey the Crown. Beat and cage Prince Llewelyn’s son, and throw Wales into turmoil. Make the Welsh lords hate Llewelyn, make the country’s succession uncertain, and give Gwynedd to some foreign lord as Eimile’s dowry. King John could have gelded Wales. A brilliant plan by a bankrupt, unpopular king, William had grudgingly admitted to Llewelyn in Duana’s hearing.

William had stopped King John. Stopped him dead. Instead of Wales, England’s political elite scrambled. Eimile was precontracted to marry Llewelyn’s other son: something Duana resented when William arranged it, but which lessened Eimile’s appeal to the Crown as a pawn. It gave Prince Llewelyn a stake in protecting the girl, but also meant any other marriage could be annulled. Eimile was promised to another – even if Eimile was an infant and her intended husband so young he sat for a time on Prince Llewelyn’s lap at the banquet this evening, listening to the bard while avoiding bedtime. 

William could not bring back those Welsh boys, but he had remained loyal to Llewelyn, and the other, weaker Welsh lords fell in line. They licked their wounds and designated new heirs. Duana overheard one of William’s knights – quite drunk and only months past being knighted – claim if William had wanted, William would be Prince of Wales. The Lord of Aber had the army and cunning and a wife who would breed, though the knight said she did not sound pleased to do so. The knight volunteered his services to Gwynedd and ‘the Lady Dana,’ if Lord William could not manage to hold her down to get a son. Duana had slipped into the shadows of the great hall and left the drunken men to their boasting and gossip. Sir Mawr Hyll had overheard though, and Duana had not seen that young knight at Aber Castle in several months.

Walter and all those boys had died when all Duana had to do was consent to King John until he became bored with her and found another trinket. William said it was the King's right, but Walter never told her, and so Duana had not known. 

Now, she could not even give William another son. He committed treason for her sake, but she brought him only trouble.

"Duana?" William's voice said in a surprised whisper from behind her. She turned and saw him standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the torch on the wall behind him. "Duana! Come out of there!"

Relieved, she made her way through the sprawling, snoring men on the floor, trying not to tread on anyone.

As soon as he could reach her, William took her by her shoulder and steered her into the hallway, being so rough she winced. "What are you doing? You cannot go for a midnight stroll among strange men. There are Normans in there, Marcher Lords, actors. Did you not see them watching you this evening? I could shake you! How could you be so foolish?"

She started to explain. "Prince Llewelyn-" 

He continued angrily. "You think I am a barbarian? These are barbarians! You do not even have your veil on. You cannot go prancing around like some wanton and expect me to protect you from every man in the castle!"

Duana ran her hands over her hair self-consciously. Although she had managed to wash the dye out, her hair did not even reach her shoulders. She no longer braided it for bed, but she had not thought of the signal she sent to any man who saw her.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to embarrass you. Prince Llewelyn-" 

William had never hit her, but he looked as angry as Duana had ever seen him. Frightened, she pressed back against the stone wall as he leaned down so they were eye to eye. "You will not find Llewelyn here," he said icily. "If he sent for you and you want him, go to his bedchamber, but do not make a laughingstock of me in front of all these men."

*~*~*~*

To Gwilym's horror, Duana slid down the wall, wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling herself into a ball, and began to sob.

He stood frozen over her, shocked at himself for making the accusation and at her reaction. Sometimes the wind blowing from the wrong direction still made her tearful, but she sobbed uncontrollably now.

She had been miserable since they arrived. She did not feel well, and the castle held too many men, too many strangers. Gwilym considered making excuses and taking her home, but the snowstorm started. The best he could offer Duana was to sleep with the other Welsh noblewomen in Joanna's bedchamber rather than in the communal great hall with him. Besides Gwilym and Leuan - who fawned over that Norse Manx woman again – Duana knew only Prince Llewelyn. If something was wrong and she could not find Gwilym, she would look for Llewelyn. 

A guard paused. "My Lord, is there anything..."

Gwilym shook his head, and the knight averted his eyes and continued walking. Prince Llewelyn imposed a fine for beating a woman, but it was her family's place to object to her treatment, not a guard's.

Now feeling like a fool and a brute, Gwilym squatted down, trying to catch her eye. "Duana, get up," he whispered. "I did not mean that. I did not truly think... I am not going to hurt you. I was afraid for you. Stop crying. For Christ's sake, at least look at me."

Her face stayed buried in her velvet skirt as her shoulders shook miserably. 

"I am a jealous ass, Cariad. Raise your eyebrow, cross your arms, laugh at me, and tell me to go to Hell. Christ on the Cross, Merfyn even stopped picking his teeth with his knife at the table out of fear of your disdain." He lowered his volume still more. "What happened? Why were you looking for me? Did you have a bad dream? Did one of the Norman men bother you?"

She still did not move. People passed out in the hallway began to stir. Gwilym pulled Duana to her feet and guided her into the empty kitchens. As soon as he let her go, Duana slumped into a chair beside the hearth, covering her face again and continuing to cry.

Gwilym found a cup that did not look too dirty and brought her a drink, which she ignored as though he and it did not exist.

"What is wrong, Cariad? You have been so much happier in the last few weeks. Is this because your, your flux came again?” Duana had spent a tearful morning on the sofa a few days ago, curled in a bundle of blankets and hot tea and despair. She had been upset in November, but this month she was convinced she was barren. Gwilym wondered at her sanity, sometimes. She knew better, and he knew she knew better. “Duana, nothing it wrong. Nothing is wrong with you. Not all women conceive after one time with a man. Or ten times. You are fine, and we are applying ourselves diligently to that end, as of late. A son will come; it is just too soon.”

He took her hands. She moved as obediently as a sleepy child as he looked for marks. He saw no bruises on her wrists or face. Her dress was not torn. Llewelyn increased the number of knights patrolling during Christmas Court, and touching a nobleman's wife would cost a man his head; it could still happen, though. Gwilym had not dreamed she would leave Joanna's bedchamber without an escort, though he should have known. The Devil himself better not stand in Duana's way if she wanted something.

There were no marks on her, she would not talk, and she would not listen to him. After stoking the closest hearth, Gwilym sat down on the kitchens’ floor beside her chair and waited, not knowing what else to do.

"I am sorry, William. I, I will stop." She took a few shuddery breaths. Gwilym got up and looked down at her. "What is wrong with me? I thought I was better. I am fine one minute, and the next-" Duana raised her hands helplessly. "I feel so weak."

"I know that feeling." He cupped her cheek in the palm of his right hand. 

"Prince Llewelyn is with Princess Joanna. I did not want to stay."

"Ah. Really?" 

She nodded.

Gwilym saw Llewelyn holding Joanna's hand earlier, but Gwilym had not anticipated the Prince of Wales would share her bed. "So you came to find me?"

"And you were not there. I thought I would walk down the steps and find you at the hearth the great hall. I thought I could talk with you and, after a time, you could walk me back to Princess Joanna’s chamber. I was looking for you, I swear it."

"I know, Cariad. I do not doubt you. I could not sleep, so I got up to see if I could find someone to talk to in the witching hour. I should have thought to go bother my favorite witch."

"You can always come bother me," she said, still shaking. 

He unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He kissed her damp cheek before he sat back. "Always? Always is a long time, and I can be quite bothersome. Be careful how you issue that invitation."

He said it lightly, teasing her, but she replied, "Always," seriously. 

*~*~*~* 

"Are you sure you are not lost?" Duana asked through chattering teeth, and tried to pull her cloak closer around her against the cold. "When will you tell me where we are going? William, what will the other vassals think when they find we are not at Prince Llewelyn's Court? It is Christmas day! Do you not have to renew your oath of fealty to the Prince? Pay homage?"

"Cariad, do you recall those marriage vows about obedience? To love and serve and cherish? Hold your tongue and warm yourself in your love for me.

She nudged her new mare up so they rode side-by-side, and leaned toward him. "William?"

"Hmm?"

"Go to Hell."

"Witch, I have been to Hell and lived to tell about it."

Duana remained quiet, probably too cold and frustrated to argue. He had promised her New Year's gift was near Llewelyn's castle, to bundle up and they would ride to it. That was two frigid hours ago.

Gwilym stopped Goliath and dismounted. Duana stopped as well, and he took her mare's bridle. "If you are not frozen solid, get down. We are here."

"Where is here?" She pushed back her hood and appraised the white landscape, the long stone wall, and the closed gate. 

"Saint Mary's Abbey. Slide down."

The abbot hurried out to greet them. He opened the gate, threw aside propriety, and embraced "Master Scully." To William, as an afterthought, he added, "Everything is ready, my lord."

Duana looked from the abbot to Gwilym and back, as if trying to find some clue as to what the surprise was. Neither man gave any sign. The abbot escorted them to the chapel, and left them. Once Duana had time to thaw, Gwilym took her, not to the noble's guest house, but to the crypt below the church. 

He saw her look at the low arches and the thick columns. On the simple stone alter near his father's effigy, candles burned beside the plain cross.

Gwilym felt Duana take his hand. 

"Dafydd," Gwilym told her quietly, and tipped his head toward the fourth stone tomb.

The sculptor modeled the effigy on Gwilym, assuming Dafydd looked like him, so the marble figure atop it had Gwilym's angular face and long limbs.

"I come here," he said softly, but his voice still seemed loud. "Not a tavern, not another woman’s hearth or bed. I come here. Sometimes for the afternoon, sometimes for the night. I pray. I talk to Dafydd. I tell him I am sorry. I tell him I still search for his sister, but I hope she is safe with him and their mother. The monks do not bother me. This is my Dafydd, the boy I raised as my son. I am allowed to cry."

Gwilym worked to keep his voice steady and not stutter. "I tell him other things. My fears for you and Eimile. About what could happen if someone counts closely the time between you leaving the London Court and Eimile's birth. Or questions my location when the Old King died. Or, if Wales ever falls under true Norman rule, how it will become important my parents never married and I do not know my mother. Dafydd knows, for the first time, when spring comes, I will send my soldiers into battle while I watch like a Caesar from the hilltop because I cannot keep a grip on my sword. I have told him how you desperately want another child and I need another son, but I am so afraid I will lose you to bleeding or fever or any of the other thousand things that could go wrong."

She leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around him and trying to offer some comfort.

"As you say, Cariad, 'I am fine.' Dafydd has heard me for several months. I tell him the silliest things - things he cannot possibly care about. He knows you still nurse Eimile - which you do not think I know - even though that baby has a wet nurse, but I cannot bear to make you stop. I told him of my renewed acquaintance with my sofa. He was probably disappointed to learn how little I knew about making love to a woman I care about, given how many women there have been I cared little for. Sometimes, my conscience gets the better of me, and I tell Dafydd how I leave messages for my wife saying I am off to do manly things while I am usually in this crypt."

Gwilym rested his chin on top of her head for a minute, hugged, and released her. Duana looked up at him with teary blue eyes and her bottom lip trembling. "This is why you brought me here?"

"Oh, no. Your present." He pointed to the last low stone box in the vault. The others were marked: Gwilym's father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and Dafydd. The last was smooth and, like his great-grandfather’s, lacked an effigy.

"You got me a tomb?" 

He nodded.

She wiped her eyes, sounding perplexed and amused. "You got me a tomb for New Year's. William, you are the romantic." 

"It is empty."

"That is good. I would be truly worried if you gave me a corpse as well." She brushed the tears away, and seemed trying not to laugh. "A tomb. Am I supposed to hunt for my real gift? Is it hidden?"

"Duana, this is your gift."

"Tell me you did not drag me out in the snow to play a joke on me."

Her forehead creased and her arms crossed as she scrutinized him. He sensed a lecture about to begin, so he hurried to explain. "You need a tomb. It does not need a body or a name. Just a tomb. As long as you have a tomb, no one cares why you weep or what you say to it," he said. "You have so much sorrow, but no bodies. It is self-indulgent to be angry or to cry without a tomb and I would not approve of that. I thought, maybe, perhaps..." He started to feel foolish. "If you had your own, when I come to Dafydd's tomb, you could come with me to talk to yours." 

She looked at him with those bottomless eyes, and his stomach tightened. 

"I do not have a tomb for my daughter so, inside my mind, I put her in Dafydd's. You can put anyone in your tomb you like." He swallowed and ran his fingers through his hair. After all their talks about souls and other worlds, he thought Duana would understand. "Anyone you want. King John, that knight who hurt you, maybe me - I do not know. Like the chest in our bedchamber. I put any frivolous thing in there and I lock it. Those things are my memories, and no one else cares to see them. If-"

"Hush."

"Do not ‘hush’ me, woman.” He worried his lip between his teeth. “There is a sapphire ring Gwen helped choose," he blurted out. He tapped his shoe against a pillar and avoided looking at her. "That is your gift. It is in the desk in Aber." 

"Hush," she repeated. "There is no ring." The seconds stretched painfully into hours before she spoke. "I like my tomb fine." 

He glanced up.

"It is a nice tomb," she added. "Well-made, and of good stone."

Gwilym nodded eagerly. 

"I would prefer to visit my tomb alone, as you do."

"Merfyn and his men can escort you. Mawr and Mawr Hyll," he suggested, since those knights seemed her favorites. Gwilym would have promised anything at that moment. "Anytime you want to come."

"I wanted to tell you we were to have a child for your New Year's gift. I was so certain, I did not even think to get you anything else."

"Next year," he assured her. "Next year is soon enough. This time next year, you can tell me you are with child, if God blesses us, and I truly will have that sapphire ring for you instead of a tomb."

"This time next year," Duana said, "if God blesses us, I will not need a tomb." 

She pulled up her hood and fastened her cloak, and followed him out of the crypt. Outside, the world glistened white but the blowing snow had stopped.

A servant brought their horses. As Gwilym helped Duana up, she asked, "William, did no one - the monks, the mason, the Abbott - think it odd you commissioned a tomb without a body? A tomb with no effigy? What did you tell the monks you were going to put in it?" 

"Credu," he answered. "As Father Leuan instructed. The monks and mason think I am insane anyway. They blame it on grief, and I let them."

"Credu?" 

Mass was said in Latin, regardless of the country. Duana must not know the Welsh word. He swung up on Goliath and told her, "Faith."

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth IV: Credu


	2. Chapter 2

Hiraeth V: Bachgen

*~*~*~*

Gwilym suspected his wife could have the London Court organized, packed, and ready to move within an hour, but arranging her hair could take decades. Women, like dragon bones and wandering stars, remained mysteries he had yet to puzzle out.

"I have never caught an amber fish,” Gwilym told Duana as he lay on his back, cross-wise on their bed, contemplating the canopy above him. He rolled to his belly and pushed up on his elbows. “But I think it likely amber comes from a fish rather than sea foam." He stroked Eimile's cheek. The baby dozed and Gwilym waited. 

"Um hum," Duana replied. She inspected herself and her white costume in the metal mirror. She dressed for the May festival, and since she had stopped frowning at her reflection, he took heart it might be this May’s festival.

Optimistic, he scooted on his elbows a few inches across the mattress, toward the side of the bedchamber where his wife stood. "The alchemist claims amber comes from trees, but I would have discovered an amber tree by now." Gwilym speculated, "A tree would not move, but a fish could swim away and be elusive."

"Ah," Duana said disinterestedly. 

She peered at herself in the mirror as if trying to decide if her hair looked best over or tucked behind her ears. He had thought the hair decision settled ages ago. Truly, the College of Cardinals could have elected a pope in the time Duana had spent dressing. A Norman royal council could have agreed on some foolish charter, levied several new taxes, and started a pointless war. Llewelyn could have sired three more daughters. 

Gwilym rested his chin on his fists and waited. "A peddler sold me a drawing of an amber fish. He said he has seen one, and they are most plentiful in spring. I will try to catch a few next week. Would you prefer an amber ring or a necklace?” He reconsidered. “Well, you can have a necklace if I catch more than one - though I do not know how much amber each fish might contain."

"Oh," she mumbled, and seemed to decide her hair should be behind her ears.

"Then, I thought I would take off my clothing, paint myself blue like the Highland Celts, and run through Aber at midday."

"Be careful," Duana said, fiddling with her embroidered gold belt. Without turning her head to look at him, she ordered curtly, "Do not let the baby roll off the bed." 

Gwilym's eyes narrowed. Eimile slept soundly, and regardless, he knew not to let a baby roll off a bed. He had three children to her one, after all.

She picked up her hairbrush again.

Rather than risk a matrimonial war, he tried a different tack. "Your dress is lovely,” he assured her. “Your hair is lovely. You are lovely. I beg you, put on your crown so we can go."

He had been bathed and dressed in his dark green tunic for MayDay and Beltane Eve since early morning, but Duana made the entire castle - and therefore all of Aber - wait.

Someone knocked sharply on the door of their bedchamber. Perhaps summer or the fairies, wondering if they would ever be allowed to arrive. 

"Come," Gwilym called. 

Merfyn peered in, wearing his best cloak and a disgruntled look. 

"I know; we are late.” Gwilym gestured helplessly with one hand. “Tell the May Queen she looks fine so we can go. Perhaps she will listen to you."

"You look fine, my lady," the old soldier informed her seriously. "You make a beautiful white lady with skin as fair as fresh cream and hair of spun copper and gold. The face of an angel, eyes of sapphire gems, hips of soft ocean waves, and breasts-"

"Thank you, Merfyn," Gwilym interupted. "It is good to know you keep close watch over my wife's breasts."

The sergeant held his tongue but grinned before he stepped out again. The celebration of the beginning of summer had even Merfyn's old blood running hot, though Duana did not seem to pay any attention to him, either. 

Gwilym brought the baby with him as he got up from the mattress. Still hopeful, he picked up the golden crown Duana would wear to lead the festivities. Any young woman could be the May Queen - the white lady - but the villagers nominated Duana, much to her embarrassment. 

"You look fine and you will do fine," he assured Duana, revisiting the wheedling tactic that had once served him well with pretty women. "I will be with you, as will Merfyn and my men. Announce the games and award the prizes. That is all the peasants expect."

"My hair-"

"Is beautiful." The white lady wore her hair loose and uncovered as a symbol of the fertility of summer, and Duana's wavy red mane fell past her shoulders. She, however, insisted she looked like a shorn sheep.

"I feel foolish. No," she announced. "No, I am not doing this. It is pagan, and they can choose someone else."

"Oh, for God's sake!" 

Diplomacy had failed. This battle could not be avoided. Gwilym laid Eimile in her cradle, looped Duana's crown of gold leaves over his wrist and, throwing an arm around Duana’s hips, he heaved his wife over his shoulder. 

"You put me down! William, you would not dare do this!" she yelled as he carried her down the stairs. She laughed as she pounded her fists against his back. "Barbarian! You big oaf!" 

"As the green man, it is my duty to deliver our white lady," he said. "We choose the most beautiful woman we can find. We apologize it happens to be you, witch."

He carried her through the great hall and outside. Merfyn and his knights followed and laughing castle servants followed the knights. Men from the stable and maids from the kitchen surged out to celebrate the arrival of spring. As Gwilym approached the outer gate of the castle, the peasants caught sight of them and began to cheer. 

In the fields, the May pole stood ready to be decorated and the bonfires to be lit to ensure a good harvest. The pagan festivities would come once the moon rose, but Duana would not be expected to participate in those, nor would he allow her to.

"Your white lady!" Gwilym announced to the boisterous crowd, although all they saw was Duana draped over his right shoulder, her feet kicking harmlessly.

He jumped as Duana delivered a sharp, stinging slap to his backside. He set her down. She glared at him, but he grinned impishly. Recovering her poise, Duana put on her crown and signaled the festivities to begin. Gwilym retreated to rub his stinging backside, still grinning.

*~*~*~*

Neither Prince Llewelyn nor the new Norman boy-king had ordered Gwilym to war this spring. A year seldom passed without a summons, though. Before harvest, Gwilym would surely be ordered from Aber and Duana and Eimile to fight some nobleman with whom he had no quarrel. The possibility existed he would not return from battle, especially now. During those long, lonely nights Gwilym was away, he wanted to conjure this memory: watching Duana laugh as she danced among the bonfires with the peasants and tradesmen. Her hair glistened like a living thing in the firelight and her eyes shone with mischief.

Gwilym still knew little about the evil that had stalked her nightmares, but her horrible dreams receded with the winter snow. The sadness and bad temper cloaking her after Eimile's birth lifted but she had scars, as he did. Sudden noises or unexpected touches startled her, sometimes. If his knights became loud and drunk in the great hall, Duana preferred to be elsewhere. Gwilym had opened his eyes to find Duana watching him as they made love, as if assuring herself of the man atop of and inside her. As for Gwilym... He had a tomb in St. Mary’s Abbey and a rapidly-growing little lie in the nursery and a right hand that still went numb. He approached forty with no heir and the burden of a sin which could never be forgiven. Still, the sun rose each morning and the stars moved on. They could lie down and die or get up and move with them. 

Duana sat down on the hillside beside Gwilym to catch her breath. She took the cup he offered, drank, and asked, "On guard for bees, dear husband?" 

She picked up the crown of green myrtle leaves he was supposed to wear. She placed it on his head. Gwilym pulled it off. 

"Witch," he muttered. A bee had stung her earlier. Perhaps he had overreacted. He was full of beer, and people did die of bee stings. She should not tease him about it. "See if I come to your rescue if you are stung again." 

She bounced her shoulder playfully against his as they sat side-by-side. “My brave knight.”

He grumbled beneath his breath, “I should give you my sword.”

She sighed and laid head against his chest. He put his arm around her. They watched the moon rise behind the drunken dancers. 

The day of games and feasting ended hours ago, but the revelry would continue until the goblins and elves drove people to the safety of their hearths. MayDay ended at Beltane Eve. Tonight, the veil between their world and the next thinned and no Christian man would venture out in the witching hour. Father Leuan had herded the peasants to evening prayers. There remained the souls too drunk or committed to sin to be herded.

"You were gallant," Duana assured Gwilym. "You looked heroic stomping on a dying insect to save me."

"He could have attacked again," he said. "That was a fierce bee." 

"Monstrous. The bards will sing of it for generations." 

Gwilym dismissed his knights and squire and Duana’s maid. Anyone who liked, Gwilym granted leave to go among the bonfires. To return to their post in the morning. That had been his father’s custom: give them leave and do not ask where they went.

With Duana’s head against his chest, Gwilym watched the last of the MayDay festivities. The peasants drove a final herd of cattle among the bonfires to ensure a good harvest. Gwilym saw his squire dancing with the cooper’s youngest daughter, and Gwen, alone, happily turning in circles as a child would. A few brave - or drunk - souls, including Merfyn, jumped through the flames for extra luck. The villagers kept their clothing on as they bounded over the fires this year. Merfyn singed himself several years past, and he had been proud to show his injuries for months afterward. By harvest, Gwen convinced the sergeant to stop lowering his breeches during supper.

Gwilym whispered the story to Duana. She not only smiled, she giggled, sounding tipsy. He glanced down and noticed they, once again, had reached the bottom of his cup. 

His face felt warm and his muscles relaxed. Duana and his people were happy and safe, with seeds in the ground and roofs over their head. As the stars passed overhead, Gwilym felt an intoxicated satisfaction and at peace with the world. Father Leuan passed again and gave Gwilym a stern look. Gwilym ignored him. 

Eventually, as the moon reached its apex, the forest clearing emptied. The bells of Aber Church tolled, making the end of the MayDay. Some dancers returned to their homes in the village, while others disappeared into the shadows. The bonfires burned on, sending orange sparks toward the stars.

A drum began to beat, and the sound slowly approached. Forgotten in the shadows, Gwilym watched as hooded figures emerged from the trees and joined hands around the biggest bonfire. The dozen figures began to chant a language Gwilym had never been taught, nor read, nor heard spoken by day. 

"What is this ceremony?" Duana whispered. "Who are these people?"

"It is late." He got to his feet. "It is time to go inside. I will walk you to the castle, and- And I will come inside soon."

Gwilym had no interest in coupling with some strange woman in the forest, but the ceremonies intrigued him. Most years, he had left for war by May, but he had, several times, seen the dancers. Last spring, he took Duana inside Aber Castle, but returned to the fields and secretly watched the couples from a distance. Gwilym have never interfered with the ceremonies. Father had forbidden it. Still, Gwilym thought of stepping into the sacred circle, in case this year was his last. 

Part of his mind promised he might be privy to the ancient mysteries - whatever those might be - while another part (in Leuan’s voice) insisted Gwilym was a grown man and a Christian husband. The MayDay festivities were a pagan tradition: feasts, games, trials of strength and combat. Father Leuan furrowed his brow, and the Pope would have objected but, like his father, Gwilym thought the festivities harmless silliness. What followed at Beltane Eve, though... He had felt the power of it even from the shadows. He should go to bed with his wife and leave the ancient Beltane mysteries - whatever those might be - to the Ancient Ones.

Duana remained seated on the slope, seeming transfixed by the figures in the field. He had shown her the circles of standing stones nearby and told her the stories of the caves: which once held dragons, which once sheltered Merlin. She seemed intrigued by his stories of the pagans, so long as she thought them mere stories.

“Duana, it is time to go inside.” He repeated the words with as much conviction as a glutton declined free food. “This is no place for you.”

“Are they Druids?” she asked with her eyes wide. "Pagans?"

Unlike Gwilym, Duana never missed confession or Mass, nor forgot a fast day. Since they needed a son, they had not abstained from lovemaking during Lent. Gwilym held a woman’s pleasure helped conception, but always gently and with him atop. Duana fed the poor and tended the sick and that wonderful sin with her mouth: not offered since they first married.

He hesitated but nodded. Squatting down, he said softly, "They are the last. Here, and on the Isle of Man. Perhaps the last in all of Europe. I have watched them, and each year, I see fewer. The Church drives them farther into hiding or hangs them as witches, but I do not think this is witchcraft. You see a dying custom. By the time Eimile is a woman, their words and ways will be forgotten."

“Do they truly sacrifice men to their Gods?”

“Never that I have seen,” he said, though he suspected the wicker man still burned each year on the Isle of Man. “Nor do they fly, nor consort with the Devil. There is no evil, only respect for the Old Ones. They pray to gods who came before the God who protects you and me.”

Duana watched with him, seeming fascinated, as the figures circled the fire. A white-robed priest made offerings to the four winds. 

"To the North, Earth. To the East, air," Gwilym translated for Duana, though he understood the intent more than the words. "To the South, fire and the West, water. They honor the Earth as their mother and the sky as their father. It is said a child born from these fires is breathed to life by the Ancient Ones."

"They are like moths around a flame."

"I do not encourage or forbid them; that was Father’s wish. He said they have come to this clearing since before my great-grandfather's time. Father believed these are the children of the Earth even as you and I are the children of God. They worship mysteries which have slipped from memory for the rest of us. They pray as they wish. They love as they wish. I think-" He worried his lips, but admitted anyway, “I think they are beautiful.”

A thought occurred to him. Druids did not hole up in the forest the rest of the year and appear on MayDay. They were not mystical beings, but men and woman of Wales. Some of the chanting figures had traveled from the Isle of Man or elsewhere, but some must be known to Gwilym. 

For the first time, he wondered which of his people were around the fire. Gwen, he suspected. Good-natured Gwen attended Mass and confessed her sins, but she spoke sometimes of her Saxon parents and still whispered a pagan incantation as she slaughtered animals for cooking. Gwen, and perhaps the Manx woman Leuan mooned over, but Gwilym could not fathom who else would take such a risk.

"Are we welcome here?" Duana whispered.

"We are not unwelcome." He watched the anonymous figures a few seconds. "I am going to join them,” he decided. “Around the fire." 

"All right," she answered, and took his hand. 

He looked down at their hands, and at her. Before he lost his nerve, he led Duana from the shadow of the trees, to the largest bonfire. 

They reached the figures. He held Duana's hand tightly and took a woman's hand. He could not see the woman's face under her hood, but the hand felt larger and rougher than his wife's. More people came to the fire. Gwilym spotted his cooper, and his cooper’s wife, and his cooper’s youngest daughter. The circle moved to the left, around the bonfire, still chanting. 

Everyone stopped moving. The priest held up a cup, drank, and passed it to the figure beside him. Gwilym's turn came to drink. He found the cup contained strong, spiced wine. He passed it to Duana, who drank as well.

"Three things from which never to be moved," the priest said. The animals of the forest fell silent and the leaves stopped rustling. The fire crackled loudly. "One's oaths, one's gods, and the truth. The three highest causes of the true human are truth, honor, and duty. Three candles that illuminate every darkness: truth, nature, and knowledge."

Gwilym understood the Druid priest. Not the ancient language, but as if he heard the priest inside his mind. The words flowed around and through him, like a mist weaving past, cooling his bones and leaving its kiss on his skin.

The cup of wine came around again. The circle of robed men and women began to turn in the opposite direction around the bonfire. Still more figures joined the ceremony. A young man ran forward, and Gwilym made out his squire’s face before the teenager pulled his hood forward. The boy, seventeen, joined hands with the cooper’s similarly hooded daughter and refused to be separated. Gwilym spotted the distinctive profile of his squire’s elderly father, a minor neighboring lord. The lord limped to the bonfire, holding the hand of an aging woman who was not his arranged wife.

The old lord saw Gwilym among the Druids, but Gwilym also saw him.

The priest threw handfuls of peppery-smelling powder into the fire. Blue and purple sparks flew to the stars, and odd-smelling smoke swirled around them. 

Gwilym held tightly to Duana's hand, letting no one come between them. There were more sparks, more wine. The Druids chanted, the drum beat louder, and time began to distort. The dancers moved to the left again, and Gwilym followed along as the fire sparked and crackled like a living thing. His face felt hot, and his lips and nose tingled like he was pleasantly drunk, which he suspected he was.

The drum stopped. The dancers stopped moving and chanting. The priest raised his arms. The heavens waited. After a few seconds of silence, the drum began to beat again, this time slowly, like a human heart.

Quietly, one couple at a time, people began to slip away, into the forest and fields. Many remained though, as did the Druid priest, his face hidden deep under the hood of his cloak. 

"He will marry us, if we want," Gwilym told Duana. "That is why the others wait. I have seen them do this."

"We are married," she answered, seeming dazed.

"A handfasting. A marriage of love rather than law. An ancient rite of Beltane. Couples can be married for a year and a day. For that year, nothing can come between them. Duana..." He swallowed. "Do you want him to marry us?"

She nodded.

The priest approached and motioned for them to kneel. 

"Do not do this lightly," Gwilym warned. 

"I do not do it lightly." She knelt beside him.

"Take my left hand with yours," Gwilym said as the Druid priest began to speak. 

The Druid bound a green cord around their joined hands and said, "As the Sun and the Moon bring light to the Earth, do you vow..."

Gwilym closed his eyes. He heard the priest inside his mind again. He felt the heat from the fire on his face and Duana's hand damp and tight in his. His breathing sounded overly loud, as though he sensed everything two-fold. The night and the smoke swirled around him, and he noticed his body swaying, overpowered by the fairies or the Old Ones or whatever the chanting circle had conjured. He felt it: something old and powerful and infinite. Gwilym saw things. Odd flashes of light. A jumble of images making no sense, but he felt tethered to them. Tethered to Duana. Tethered to everything, as though he and Duana existed among the stars rather than beneath them.

"...for as long as love shall last. So let it be," the priest said, and turned away. 

Duana still knelt beside Gwilym, and a cord encircled their left hands. 

“We are married,” he whispered.

Gwilym kissed her and grinned bashfully. For the first time, he had asked a woman to marry him rather than grudgingly conceded. Even better, she had agreed. Even better, she was beautiful, with huge blue eyes and flushed cheeks and windblown wavy hair. He licked his lips and kissed this wanton-looking creature again.

Duana's mouth opened as she kissed him. Gwilym felt her warm hand on his face. A spark flowed from her body to his. He caressed her breast and her hip, pulling her against him. He parted his lips, kissing her hungrily; she responded in kind. 

Their left hands remained joined. The drum continued to beat.

Somewhere in the field, he heard a woman panting in syncopation with a man’s ragged breathing. The man’s voice began to chant a single word, faster and faster as flesh met flesh. Darling. He called her the Manx endearment ‘darling.’ Gwilym opened his eyes. Near the trees, he saw another couple: a woman nude, on her hands and knees, and a slim man with his breeches open. With slow, deep thrusts, the man took the woman from behind. The woman arched her hips upward, opened her legs, and let him. 

Gwilym recognized none of the shadowy figures or indistinct voices. The couple he saw - the woman at least – looked past the age of conceiving a child. He wondered, in his addled mind, if he witnessed an aging man and woman’s act of desperation. Or if the couple came to the bonfires together every year to be married. Or each came separately, to meet once a year. Year after year, decade after decade, pledging themselves and making love in secret.

Gwilym saw Duana watching the man and woman as well.

Gwilym touched Duana’s face again and licked his lips. Without a word, she laid back on the grass. Her pupils, as she watched him, were huge. She reached out her hand, drawing him down onto her. He covered her and pushed her long skirt up around her hips.

The drummer was nearby. Somewhere in the darkness, a woman cried out in pleasure.

Duana turned her head, looking at the couple near the trees. 

"Close your eyes. Feel the drum in your chest," Gwilym whispered. 

He caressed her breasts through the bodice of her dress and kissed the soft valley between them. His hand, he put between her legs, and found her body slick like the flesh of a peach in the summer sun. He smelled her. Not a woman: his woman. 

He repeated, “Close your eyes.” This time, she obeyed.

Gwilym moved down her body and pushed her legs apart. For the first time, he touched her with his mouth and lips – a thing he once woke and saw Llewelyn doing to Tangwystl in the tent late one night, before Gruffydd came, when Llewel still brought Tang along to their various wars. Gwilym heard Duana gasp. He pushed the tip of his tongue inside her. She whimpered, and her thighs began to tremble. He licked again at that little knob of flesh holding a woman’s pleasure. Her back arched and she breathed faster. Her feet shifted in the grass and she pleaded with him, both to stop and not stop. He felt her fingers in his hair as he held her legs open, moving his tongue against her sex.

He wanted to bring her to orgasm with his mouth, but his wife informed him – quite pointedly – she wished to be pleasured in another manner. 

As soon as he let her up, Duana had his breeches open.

"Kiss me. See what you taste like," Gwilym said as he covered her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and his prick deep inside her, all at once. She convulsed and cried out, but his mouth muffled the sound.

He smelled her on his face like an animal catches the scent of a female in heat. She wreathed under him, caressing him, kissing him, encouraging him. Harder. Faster. She still held the green cord the priest had used. Gwilym put his palm against hers again, looped the cord around their wrists, and lifted their joined hands above her head. He pushed both her hands against the soft ground and held her there. Skirt up, legs apart. He held her down as he thrust into her: hard, as she had requested.

He asked if Duana liked him fucking her like a spoil of war. She managed some affirmative. The true response came as her muscles tensed and her breath came in desperate gasps. She cried out, and he felt her body spasm around his cock. Once, twice. She lay panting, flushed, and still convulsing and begging each time he thrust inside her. 

She opened her eyes to look up at him. Gwilym thought he might fall into those blue depths and drown. "I am not afraid," she assured him breathlessly. "Not of you. This William, I know."

“Turn around,” he said, and let go of her hands so she could.

*~*~*~*

The Druids had put something in that wine, Gwilym told himself. 

Images swirled back to him like a hundred arrows loosed at once. The handfasting, Duana under him, astride him, in front of him on her hands and knees like an animal. The taste of her, the sound of the Beltane fires crackling, the heat dancing over her bare, sweaty skin. Teeth, tongues, lips, thighs. Her breathing, her body convulsing. The damp grass, the smoke from the bonfire, the pulse of the drum. 

That did not happen, Gwilym decided. They oversaw the Aber MayDay festivities as the Lord and Lady of Gwynedd, and everything else was some vivid, drunken dream. 

There had been no Druids and no pagan rites. Certainly not rites to which Gwilym took his Christian wife. Certainly, Duana had not been on her hands and knees in some field, nor had there been any putting-tongues-in-places-tongues-did-not-belong. There was no talk of anyone’s ‘sweet, tight cunt.’ Nor had he pressed a slick finger to his wife’s ass and, when she gasped, asked her if she might like his big prick where the Greek women did, the next time he fucked her. 

Father Leuan would have him doing penance for a decade, and Gwilym could never look Duana in the face again if all that truly happened.

Gwilym opened his eyes to find he and the sun were not on speaking terms that morning. His head pounded. His mouth felt parched. He lay in their bed, which further evidenced the previous night was a dream. He had no memory of stumbling in from the fields last night, naked or otherwise.

Duana was not with him, but he saw an indentation from her body on the down mattress beside him. In the nook at the head of their bed, beside the stub of a candle, he noticed a tangled, grass-green length of cord. Gwilym stared at it. With a moan, he pulled the covers over his head. He would join that Crusade the new Pope urged. It took more than a year to reach and return from the Holy Land. He could face Duana by then. 

*~*~*~*

The candles on his desk had burned out. Even the fire in the office hearth had died. Gwilym held up the candle and looked in, checking. The door to their bedchamber sat open and the bedchamber was dark. He heard only the spring rainstorm outside. Deciding he was safe, he stepped across the threshold from the hallway.

"There is supper on your desk," Duana mumbled in a sleepy voice.

Gwilym froze. Duana lay on the sofa with the bedrobe over her like a blanket. A linen cloth covered a tray on his desk, beside a bottle of wine.

"I am not hungry," he claimed, though he missed both the midday and evening meal. 

Duana rubbed her eyes. She yawned, stood, and stretched. Outside, the storm rumbled warningly. She wore a chemise, and clearly had been waiting up for him. He waited for her to ask his whereabouts since morning, but she did not.

"I have been fishing," he offered, following her to their bed.

"In the rain?" She pushed the bed curtains back and folded down the coverlet.

"Amber fish bite better in the rain." Which was true, he congratulated himself.

"In the dark?" she asked sleepily.

He stood looking at her. Duana took the candle from him, blew it out, and set it in the headboard. She climbed into bed and scooted over to make room for him. 

"Amber fish bite better in the dark," Gwilym said, "but I still did not manage to catch one. Someone is charming them or me."

"Of course," she said obediently.

He continued standing beside the bed as if his feet had rooted to the floor.

After an awkward silence, Duana asked in the damp darkness, "Are you afraid for your virtue?" She said it lightly, but he knew her well enough to hear the nervousness in her voice. "William, I-"

"I swear it will not happen again," he blurted out. "I do not know what I was thinking: drinking so much, allowing you to join the circle, and, and- And everything that happened after."

"William-"

"It is my sin." He began pacing beside the bed. "You did what I asked but I was drunk - and drugged, I believe - and I do not know what I was thinking," he repeated. "You are my wife. That will not happen again." 

He heard the mattress shift but he could not see her. Her voice asked softly, "Are you angry with me?"

He stopped pacing and tilted his head. "No," he said slowly, as if he might have misunderstood the question.

"William, you are a nobleman, but I was not born and raised as a noblewoman-"

"That does not give me the right to treat you like, like-" He swallowed and asked, "Did I-"

"You did not hurt me," she answered quickly. "Come to bed. Please."

He undressed and lay down but stayed as far away from her as possible without falling to the floor. "Leuan tells me not to bait dragons. To know my place and remain in it, or else I will get burnt," he said. "What if a priest had seen us? We would be accused of witchcraft and literally burnt. Because of me. Because of my curiosity and lust and insistence on baiting dragons."

After a few seconds, she said softly, "Perhaps Father Leuan was among the Druids."

He lifted his head from the pillow. "Did you see Leuan around the fire?"

She answered "I pray not," in a way making him certain she lied. Thunder and lightning punctuated another uncomfortable pause before she asked, "Are you ashamed of me?"

"I am ashamed of me. Of my sin. Of corrupting you. No matter how, how, how pleasurable it was, I should not ask it of you. You are not a spoil of war, and you are not a girl I carry off to deflower-”

“You do recall that night in November. I thought you so drunk you did not remember, Sir Welshman.”

He fiddled with the sheet, red-faced and glad of the darkness. “I- I was drunk that night, and I think drunken foolishness best left unmentioned. I should not have treated you like that. I-"

"Why not?"

He had not married a meek Norman woman; Duana interrupted him on a regular basis, but her interruptions seldom left him speechless. 

She inched closer. "I do not doubt your or my faith in God. We are not guilty of witchcraft. Foolishness and drunkenness, but... I am not a girl; I am your wife. How can you corrupt me with acts to which I consent? Why must I love my husband as the Church decrees?" 

Gwilym's mouth opened. No sound came out.

"I have been thinking today, as obviously, wherever you were hiding, have you," she said. "We displeased the priests – again - but how have we truly sinned against God? If you are not angry with me, and I have pleased you, how is anything you or I did a sin? I do not understand why God would give us pleasure but forbid it." 

"Do you love me?" he asked before he could stop himself. 

"Of course, I love you. How can you be so brilliant and so thick at the same time?"

He moved closer until he risked touching her. 

The storm punished the roof over their heads. If the storm had arrived a day earlier, there would have been no MayDay fires or handfasting, and they would not be having this conversation. 

He was married, Gwilym realized. To this woman, of her own volition. This woman who followed him into a Druid ceremony and fussed over his wounds and laughed at his jokes. For a year and a day. He started to ask Duana if she truly meant those pagan vows but realized she did. 

His chest felt as full as his belly felt empty.

Lightning flashed, lighting the window screens for several seconds. Duana’s head rested on her pillow but he saw her eyes open and watching him.

"Perhaps, dear wife," Gwilym said, after some consideration and gathering of courage. "After I have slept, I may let you love your husband again. As you wish, but more gently and on a softer surface. In private."

She scooted toward him. "I do wonder who saw us." 

"I shall investigate. At meals and Mass, I will observe to see who looks aghast."

"Or envious," she said, and tapped the end of his nose with her fingertip. “The French word is ‘envious.’”

"Or envious." Gwilym smiled, put his arms around her, and slept.

*~*~*~*

No summons came to go to war that spring. Gwilym had time to hunt and swim and pursue dragons and amber fish. To make love to his wife as he liked – and he discovered, as she liked, as well. His bed became far more interesting once he and Duana occupied it and left the priest to priestly business in the chapel.

Gwilym spared with Merfyn and beat Llewelyn at chess and visited Dafydd's tomb. He and Merfyn worked with Llewelyn's son Rhys, though the boy's temperament suited a future poet more than a future prince. Gwilym read to Duana and settled disputes among the peasants and had the castle's roofs replaced. Eimile began pulling herself up but refused to let go to take her first steps. Her first word was "Dehdeh" and her second "dog." Duana had to wait a fortnight to hear "Mama."

The gentle spring passed luxuriously and, in mid-summer, there came another welcome and pleasant development. 

Merfyn, also wallowing in the pleasure of his own family and hearth, did not notice this development until autumn. Once he did though, Gwilym knew all of Aber would be informed by dusk and all of Gwynedd by noon the following day.

Duana emerged from the castle as the marshal of the horses led out Goliath and Duana’s new mare. Gwilym saw Merfyn's sharp eyes discreetly sweep over Duana, look again, and check a third time. Though Gwilym had not asked Merfyn to accompany them to the village, within a moment Merfyn's horse was saddled and Merfyn himself held Duana's mare still as Gwilym and a squire helped her mount.

Merfyn led the chestnut mare around the inner bailey with the same care he once led Gwilym's children on Goliath. Duana rode well in the sidesaddle and the little palfrey was good-natured and well-trained or Gwilym would not have allowed Duana on it. Merfyn continued to lead the docile mare round and round until he was satisfied of Duana's safety.

Each time he could catch Gwilym's eye and catch Duana looking away, Merfyn gestured to his own belly - which roughly matched Duana's - until Gwilym drew a finger warningly across his own throat.

As they rode through the village, Duana slowed her mare and dropped behind them, and Gwilym answered Merfyn's pantomimed question. "Obviously she is with child," he said in a low voice, riding close alongside his sergeant. "She does not want me to announce it until she is sure."

In truth, Duana had been certain for months. It was Gwilym who feared Llewelyn’s curse: announce and celebrate a future heir only, within weeks, to have everyone pat his shoulder sympathetically and say his wife was young, they could try again once she was well. Noblemen did not pat Prince Llewelyn, obviously, but Gwilym dreaded those pitying looks. Duana said if all was well with a baby by the sixth month, all would likely stay well. That was Gwilym’s plan and it seemed fitting: celebrate this child of the pagan spring bonfires among the pagan bonfires of All Souls’ Eve.

Merfyn looked back at Duana. "When does she plan to be sure? As she gives birth?" The old man looked again. He asked more loudly than Gwilym wished he would, "Is this a son?"

"The midwife says so. Duana says she does not know this time. In a few more months, we will all know." 

"A son," Merfyn said happily, clearly hearing one word of Gwilym's answer. "Congratulations!"

Gwilym rode for a moment before he answered. "Son or daughter, it is a baby to be born eighteen months after the last one."

Merfyn shrugged. "Some would say that is overdue."

"Some would say you are impertinent," Gwilym shot back. "My wife is not a hunting hound; I do not expect a litter from her twice a year."

Merfyn's wife Elan had twins Eimile's age and was expecting again any day. She remained nominally Duana's maid, but Elan was too ponderous to be of any true use. Elan and Merfyn seemed amused and elated Elan appeared to be gestating a foal. Gwilym had asked Duana privately last week. She told him "Twins," in a quietly worried voice. "At least twins."

Gwilym thought Merfyn would understand his trepidation, but the sergeant shrugged again. "We are blessed."

Gwilym shook his head. Try as he might, he could not be as casual as he saw Merfyn and other men be. Some men paid so little attention to their wives they asked if the woman carried yet another child or remained pregnant with the same one as before. Some husbands rode off hunting and whoring as their children were born, annoyed with all the noise and mess their wife caused in the bedchamber.

So far, this child of the Beltane fires had been blessed. Although Duana was sick early on, there had been no bleeding. She seemed healthy and excited and, as she had been with Eimile, pleasantly interested in Gwilym's husbandly duties in the last few months. The baby was fine, but the dangerous part for Duana lay ahead. Gwilym did not care to hear how a woman must suffer as she brought forth children. As much as Duana wanted this baby - and as much as he needed a son - he would trade anything to keep it from ever coming.

"She will be fine," Merfyn said. "She is young, healthy. A son," he repeated proudly, as if he personally contributed in some manner.

Gwilym looked back and saw the subject of their discussion in the process of awkwardly dismounting to inspect something in a merchant's stall. Any of the four knights riding with them or the servants and squires following could have brought Duana whatever interested her. In fact, the merchant would be honored to bring his fabric or cheese or trinkets to Aber Castle for her to examine, but Duana wanted to climb up and down from her horse and roam around market day like some peasant's wife. 

Gwilym stopped Goliath and waited, gritting his teeth. "Duana will be fine as your first healthy young wife was fine?" he asked Merfyn. 

Gwilym's boyhood memory remained vivid: midwives carrying out bloody sheets and Leuan hurrying into Merfyn's house to bless the young woman and her baby. Gwilym had been sent into the castle before the bodies were brought out, but he remembered seeing the new grave. He remembered finding Merfyn sobbing beside it later that day. Gwilym had never seen a man cry, and had regarded Merfyn, his father's young sergeant, as a short, Greek warrior god. Merfyn had remarried - four times, in fact - and would boast for hours about his many children and grandchildren and wives and women who were not his wives. Gwilym had never heard him mention that first wife since the day she died, though. 

Gwilym's irritable comment met tight-lipped silence. Merfyn lost his casual, congenial air.

Gwilym exhaled and chastised himself. The cool breeze blew a collection of fallen leaves past Goliath’s feet.

"I pray not, my lord. I pray for her ladyship and this child's health, as do all your subjects," Merfyn answered with an icy formality. "Gwynedd's future depends on it." He paused. "Heulyn. Her name was Heulyn."

"I remember Heulyn of the apple tarts and daisy necklaces. I was eight."

Merfyn nodded. He watched Duana as she haggled over the price of spices with the merchant. "I was her ladyship’s age. Heulyn was nineteen and as lovely as the morning sun."

"Merfyn, I was unkind," Gwilym said. 

"That was my first child." Merfyn continued as if he had not heard Gwilym. "A son. I saw him. The midwife wrapped him in a blanket, and I buried him with his mother." He turned his head and looked at Gwilym. "You have buried a woman and you have buried a child. I pray you never know the pain of burying both at once."

Gwilym swallowed dryly. 

Merfyn remained silent a moment, as if remembering his place and collecting his thoughts. 

The breeze picked up again, pushing a tide of yellow and red and orange leaves past.

Gwilym glanced up at a commotion arose in the village square. A boy scurried through the sheep and carts and merchant's stalls, sending birds squawking and dogs barking. The peasant boy yelled for Gwilym, saying the tanner's wife had been attacked. 

The market crowd parted to let the boy through. "My lord, please come," he begged breathlessly. "They have caught the man! A Norman!"

Gwilym's forehead wrinkled worriedly. Though he had one tanner, he still asked, "Muretta?"

The boy nodded.

Damn it, Gwilym had told her not to walk alone. Muretta was a pretty woman, and the stretch of road from Aber to her husband's home was secluded and thickly wooded and exactly where Gwilym would ambush someone, if he was of a mind to.

Merfyn looked to see if Gwilym wanted him to deal with the rapist or stay with Duana.

As much as Gwilym disliked the idea, if the man was Norman (or English or something else; to the peasants all foreigners not Vikings or Celts were "Norman") Gwilym needed Duana until Father Leuan could come. He spoke fair proper French now, but not the casual language of commoners, and still little English.

Gwilym sent the boy to find Father Leuan. Merfyn and his knights went to escort Duana quickly but safely to the tanner's house to translate. Gwilym  
turned Goliath and galloped away from the village, making peasants dodge out of the way.

The tanner sat on the ground outside his little house holding his weeping blonde wife and looking stunned. Restless, gawking peasants stood nearby, and two men held a struggling, cursing, dark-haired stranger. 

Gwilym's first impulse was to comfort the woman, but of course he did not. As the Lord, he asked the obvious question: had any man seen? Muretta’s face bore bruises and her dress was torn. She had struggled, but a woman could not testify against a man, even in Wales. Some freeman must bear witness she had not enticed the stranger or accepted his money. Gwilym judged neither the case. To Gwilym’s perpetual puzzlement, Muretta adored her dim, weak-willed husband; she would not make him a cuckold. Alternately, if the tanner had told her they needed the money, she would not have struggled. For her husband’s sake, Gwilym bet Muretta would, without objection, let the entire Welsh army line up with their pricks out. Still, without a male witness, there was no crime.

Duana arrived a few minutes later, and the crowd from the village shortly after that.

The tanner saw, he told Gwilym. The blacksmith, who help restrain the stranger, had seen as well, and pulled the stranger off the woman. 

The crowd murmured. The rapist could be punished, and Lord Gwilym had no tolerance for rapists - and he had become even less tolerant as of late. Also, many of the men had seen Lord Gwilym with this woman in the tavern, before she married, and before Lady Duana arrived. Lord Gwilym had been, and in fact still seemed, fond of her. The Norman picked the wrong peasant women to rape and the wrong kingdom to do it in. The spectators began to jockey for position to see what punishment Lord Gwilym would dole out.

Gwilym looked around, hoping Leuan would appear to translate. The priest probably moped around the village church like a forlorn puppy. The candle maker's niece left the village recently, returning to her homeland. Father Leuan seemed to believe he could pray her back to Aber or pray himself out of the priesthood. 

Giving up on Leuan, Gwilym turned to the stranger. 

"What says the man?" he asked the well-dressed, somewhat bloodied foreigner. The blacksmith held one of the man's arms and the cooper held the other. The village men had begun their own justice while sending for Gwilym. "Nom?" Gwilym asked, hoping the man spoke French.

"Alcek," the man spat out, followed by a jumble of French Gwilym did not understand.

Gwilym glanced at Duana. She sat on her horse and stared at the ground. If this was the Alex from her nightmares, he was dead. 

The tanner's wife covered her head with her hands and arms, sobbing. Duana dismounted. She went to Muretta, bending down near her and speaking sympathetically. The foreigner continued ranting. 

Duana looked not at the rapist, but to Gwilym.

As Gwilym watched the two women, he thought, while he had never ordered a man hanged, drawn, and quartered, today might be the day to try it out. Or gelded, hung, and crucified, and afterward drawn and quartered.

"He says he thought she was a prostitute," Duana said. Her voice was small, but loud enough for Gwilym and the crowd to hear. "He says he does not speak Welsh, and he made a mistake."

"You do not need to speak Welsh. She did not take your money or go with you. She is no longer a prostitute. Tell him, Cariad."

Duana did and translated for Gwilym. Gwilym sensed French was not the man's first language. The foreigner was a handsome Bulgar or a Slav, with skin and eyes darker than Gwilym's. The man roamed a long way from home, probably for a reason. 

"He does not deny he forced her," Duana said. "He will pay the fine. He has money."

Another murmur arose among the villagers. Commoners rarely received any compensation if a woman was attacked.

With the men holding his arms, the foreigner opened the purse tied to his belt and tossed a few shillings at the tanner. Muretta flinched as the coins landed on the fallen autumn leaves. It was more money than the tanner would see in a year and far more than the usual fine for raping a woman who was not a virgin anyway. Still, the gesture did not sit well with Gwilym. 

"I do not think he wants your money. I think he wants his wife untouched."

Duana repeated what Gwilym said and earned a torrent of words sounding vulgar even to Welsh ears. 

Gwilym considered advising the foreign man to speak respectfully to Duana, but decided not to waste his breath. "I judge you guilty of the rape of this woman, based on your own admission and her husband's and my smith's word. Let all here bear witness. Hang him." Gwilym nodded to Merfyn. "Now."

Someone brought a rope before Duana had finished translating. The crowd began backing the foreigner toward a tree. Gwilym remembered the sunlight had shone down prettily through the orange leaves. 

"That is not the law!" the man shouted. He had a basic command of Welsh - which Gwilym suspected he must to wander this far into Wales. And, with winter almost upon them, any gentleman would be supervising his own land, not traveling. This Alcek was a well-dressed thief or a mercenary who had been exiled.

"If you rape a woman in my kingdom, you are under my law. I will send your head to Prince Llewelyn if you would like to object. The rest of you can feed my pigs."

The villagers murmured their approval. This sentence, though extreme, sat fine with them. Let him strangle, then burn in Hell.

"I want an ordeal!" the man protested as Merfyn tossed the noose over a stout tree branch. "A priest! This is not the law! I will pay the fine!"

"Why trouble God? There is no need for an ordeal if you admit your own guilt. No amount of money will give this man or woman back what you have taken," Gwilym said.

He dismounted and went to Duana, who looked jumpy. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Come away." He took her hand. She would not want to watch the hanging; he would send her back to the castle with a knight. 

"You Welsh bastard! You barbaric whore-son!" the man screamed as Gwilym turned his back and helped Duana onto her mare. "How dare you! You would not dare hang me over some peasant slut!"

Later, Gwilym would remember the next sequence of events as though everyone moved and spoke through honey. Actions happened far slower than normal.

Merfyn tied the foreigner's hands behind his back and slipped the noose over his head. Two of Merfyn's knights held the man. Another knight helped with the rope, and one held everyone's horses. Gwilym remembered hearing Merfyn tell Alcek Lord Gwilym ordered him hanged but he would die a eunuch if he did not shut his mouth in Lady Duana's presence.

After Duana was in the saddle, Gwilym held the reins rather than giving them to her. The excitement of the crowd made the little palfrey nervous, and it fidgeted.

Gwilym remembered hearing Muretta sobbing so hard he could not imagine how she breathed. Duana looked upset, as well. Gwilym fingered his dagger with one hand and considered cutting out Alex's tongue, though he liked the eunuch idea better. 

Alcek jerked free and kicked out, striking Duana's mare's haunches and frightening the animal. Gwilym held the reins. He kept the gentle mare from going far, but the force threw Duana forward. Unwieldy and unable to catch herself, Duana fell from the sidesaddle. Gwilym saw his hand grasp at air. 

Duana sprawled face-down on a pile of stones. 

Gwilym heard his own strangled voice shout "Duana!" as she lay perfectly, frighteningly still. He remembered her stillness clearly, because nightmares germinated in that pregnant stillness. Gwilym turned Duana over. Her head lolled. Scarlet blood streamed from her nose and her forehead, flowing back from her white face and down onto the dying autumn leaves.

Gwilym remembered the absolute silence of the crowd, and the rustling trees, and how the center of his being began to tremble. How the sun streamed down in warm yellow rays. How Merfyn pulled a dagger and expertly slit the foreigner's throat.

*~*~*~*

Father Leuan saw people everywhere: standing in the inner bailey, loitering in the great hall, in a gaggle of kitchen maids and grooms and squires blocking the steps. Everywhere Leuan looked the castle hummed with whispered gossip. Gwilym was far too lax and his people took advantage, though Lady Duana generally saw to it they went about their business. Even a half-dozen knights had their heads together, muttering. This was nonsense, and Leuan would speak to Gwilym about it. Gwilym could not expect Lady Duana to single-handedly manage all of Gwynedd while Gwilym went off in search of unicorns and fairies and excommunication.

As Leuan tried to push his way up the steps, one of the grooms grabbed his robe and blabbered, "You must tell him that mare is docile, Father! The most docile I have ever trained."

"You will unhand me," Leuan said sternly, taken aback. "I am a man of God."

The young man seemed too stupid or frightened to comply, but the marshal of the horses and another groom succeeded in prying the groom’s fingers loose. They pulled him away.

"You will make it worse, you fool," someone chastised him.

Leuan looked at the men from the stables and at the knights. Outside, he had seen Goliath lathered and ridden hard and untied, waiting for someone unsaddle and rub him down. Any of the dozen men and boys in the great hall should have tended Gwilym's favorite horse, yet none had, nor had the men outside or on the steps. That was reason enough to be terrified. Cobwebs and cold food Gwilym tolerated, but not mistreating his horses. Or his children. Or his women.

Leuan thought Gwilym took Duana riding this morning, but he had not seen her mare outside. He would have assumed it was in the stable, but every man from the stable lurked in the castle. "What has happened?" Leuan demanded, and no one answered. 

The nervous whispers resumed.

"See to his lordship's horse," he ordered, and a crowd of men surged past him to comply. That cleared a path. Leuan hurried up the stone steps as quickly as his knees allowed. "Llwynog! What in the Devil has gotten into you? I do not care what woman it is, what is this about not troubling God? A village boy says you hanged some foreigner without-" 

Father Leuan reached the doorway of the bedchamber and stopped short. Gwilym and Gwen hovered over Lady Duana as she lay on the bed. Gwilym might have walked off the battlefield from all the blood soaked down the front of his tunic and smeared on his forearms.

"Leuan, you must fetch the midwife,” Gwilym ordered, his voice shaky. “The midwife who attended her with Eimile.”

Gwen held a bloody towel against Lady Duana’s forehead. 

Leuan saw the splotches of blood on her ladyship’s long skirt. “I, I- What has happened?”

Duana mumbled something, sounding disoriented. Gwilym stood beside the bed, watching helplessly.

“She fell from her horse. I could not catch her. The cut on her forehead is bad, and she is bleeding- The baby-” Gwilym’s lungs ran out of air. “I sent for a doctor and a midwife from the village, but you must bring the old Druid midwife.” 

“Llwynog, I cannot.”

Lady Duana mumbled again, grimaced, and tried to push Gwen’s hand from her forehead. 

“You can.” Gwilym left Duana and approached Leuan as a rabid dog moved toward its master. Leuan wondered if he was about to get his throat cut. “I know what you did, Leuan. Duana told me. Old Magic or witchcraft or whatever she did to save Duana- I do not care at this moment. I am damned, and Duana is bleeding. You take my fastest horses, and you find that old woman and bring her.”

Leuan stepped back. “I cannot.” 

“She is bleeding!”

“I cannot bring the old midwife, Llwynog. She is dead.” Leuan swallowed. “My mother is dead. She died last winter.”

Gwilym stared at him, stunned and as if he watched his last hope slip from his grasp.

Duana tried to push Gwen away again. 

“Her ladyship asks for her mother,” Leuan said. “‘Mathir.’”

Gwilym returned to the bed. "Do you want your mother, Cariad? I will send for her, but you must stay strong until she can come." Gwilym went to the hall, picked a wide-eyed servant at random, and dispatched him to Dublin or Dover with vague instructions to find a woman among the Scully clan with a daughter named Duana. One who had been a mason's wife. 

"There is a cross she wore as a child. Take it from her jewelry box and show it to her mother so the woman will know you tell the truth. Caithrin," he barked. "Her mother's name is Caithrin. And send back the alchemist named Llangly," Gwilym yelled after the poor servant. 

Gwilym returned to Duana, who mumbled again. "Froid." Cold. Then, also in French, “Bad hard,” as she said earlier. “Bad hard.”

Gwilym's nightmare came to life. Duana’s lips became blue, her face pale, and she breathed shallowly. Soldiers with belly wounds looked like this in the horrible hours before Death took them.

“Bad hard?” Gwilym echoed and looked to the priest. 

"Mulad?" Leuan guessed. "'Melancholy.' She is sad and she is cold."

Though blankets and furs covered the bed, Gwilym took off his old gray cloak and tucked it around her. The cloak, too, was stained with blood. The little bump of her belly rose from beneath it. If this child came now, it could never live. Nor, likely, would Duana.

"What else, Duana? What do you want?" Gwilym asked urgently.

She said, “Bad hard” again, and asked in French, "What has happened?"

"Mullach? The summit?" Leuan still guessed. "Melinydd? The miller? A stone mason? Mealladh? Gwilym, mealladh na minnseach is an herb used by witches. Not Druids: witches. Gwen-" 

“I do not know it,” Gwen said. “And I know no witches.”

"You fell,” Gwilym told Duana frantically. He ignored Leuan and Gwen jabbering. “You have a cut on your forehead and the baby is coming. What should we do?" 

Duana mumbled again. One word, Gwilym realized. A name. A foreign man's name. She asked for a man, saying she needed him.

"Cariad, I do not know this 'Malder.' 'Moldau.' He is not here. Tell me how to stop the baby from coming. It is far too soon."

"William?" She opened her eyes. Her huge pupils stared at nothing. "I cannot see you."

"I am here. Herbs to stop miscarriage: I have seen you give them to other women. What are they?" 

"Yarrow for bleeding. Black haw and cramp bark to relax the womb. Wild yam," she said. "William, I am so cold."

Gwilym took over holding the cloth to Duana’s forehead. Gwen went to Duana's chest of herbs and rooted through the pouches. She called frantically for Leuan to help; Gwen could not read the labels.

"You put yarrow on my shoulder. Willow bark and poppy for pain. What is this other? Mealladh? Muldah? Mulder?" Gwilym asked. "Is that a person you want? Is that a man?"

He did not care who it was; if the man lived and could be found, Gwilym would bring him to her.

"Where are you? I cannot see you," she repeated weakly, "Mealladh na minnseach is for shifting a man's shape. Witchcraft. No willow until the baby is safe; it will make the bleeding worse. No poppy, either." 

"Yarrow and black haw and cramp bark and wild yam,” he called to Gwen. “You will have them.” He sat on the bed and maneuvered Duana so her head rested on his lap. "I am here. I am holding you. Father Leuan is here as well." If Last Rites became necessary. 

Duana turned her head toward something beside their bed. "Mulder." She smiled tiredly, seeming relieved.

Assessing the situation with liquid brown eyes, the dogs lay with their muzzles flat on the floor and whimpered. The candle guttered. In the middle of a warm autumn day, the dark hair rose on Gwilym's arms. Gwilym had no need to figure out the name or send for anyone. Whatever man Duana wanted, he had arrived, unseen to all except her.

*~*~*~*

"Feel," Gwen whispered. "Wake up, Llwynog."

She had not meant to startle Gwilym but he jumped and shook himself awake in the dim bedchamber.

"I think the babe lives," Gwen said. "I feared he lost too much blood, but I think I felt him move."

Gwilym hastily wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Has Duana woken?"

"No. Not yet."

"Is she fevered?" 

In the candlelight, stubble shadowed his face and, for the first time, Gwen noticed grey whiskers among the dark ones. "No," Gwen answered. "Her skin is cool and she breathes easier."

As Lady Duana slept, Gwilym put his hand on her belly where Gwen indicated. After a moment, he nodded Gwen was correct. He, too, felt movement.

Gwilym's lips moved in a silent prayer, thanking the Virgin. 

"This must be a boy," Gwen said. "A girl would be too weak to survive such a fall."

The alchemist knew little of Lady Duana's herb-craft, but left a lapis stone for her to hold in her hand against miscarriage. Llangly advised Gwen to be careful of poppy. Too much poppy was deadly, he said. Poppy and belladonna and hemlock and cyanide and foxglove; all should be avoided in large quantities. A midwife had agreed willow bark tea should be safe once the bleeding stopped.

The tea Gwen made from Lady Duana's herbs, Lady Duana had vomited. 

The hours had dragged through the long night. The baby's bleeding subsided but the cut on Lady Duana's forehead swelled and darkened. Gwilym sat beside her. Lady Duana looked away and at something on the other side of the bed. Sometimes she reached her hand toward whatever she saw. Each time she dropped the lapis stone, Gwilym put it back in her hand. Finally, Gwilym moved to the other side of their bed, put the stone in her hand and, with his hand over his, forced her to hold it.

Gwilym watched and waited and prayed. Leuan and Gwen prayed with him. The servants and knights went to the castle's chapel; the peasants went to the village church. Everyone knew, though Gwilym did not seem to realize it. He had not announced Lady Duana’s pregnancy but every soul in Aber knew of it, and everyone knew this was a child of the Beltane fires. 

Merfyn arrived with blood on his forearms and dirt on his tunic. The foreigner was buried, he said – in unholy ground and with his head cleaved from his body - and Merfyn’s men would bring a doctor. Merfyn's knees popped, and he grunted as he knelt beside Leuan. 

Gwilym turned Duana's face toward him, pleading with her, but Gwen knew her ladyship’s eyes did not see her husband. As soon as he let go, Duana looked again at the empty bedside.

Gwen watched, helpless and horrified, as Gwilym shook Lady Duana's shoulders and ordered her not to leave him. Lady Duana's head had lolled like a child's doll. Father Leuan pleaded with Gwilym, but it was Merfyn who put his hand on Gwilym's shoulder and sternly told him to let his wife rest. The two men had taken Gwilym away from the bed. As Gwen tended to Lady Duana, Merfyn stood near the doorway and spoke softly to Gwilym. Whatever the old sergeant said, Gwilym looked calmer as he returned to Lady Duana's beside.

After that, Lady Duana no longer woke. 

Dawn came, and midday. A maid came with a message, and Merfyn went to his own young wife. 

After dusk, the maid came again to say Elan and her newborn babies were well. She said Merfyn himself would go for a doctor for Lady Duana. If Gwilym heard the message, he gave no sign. In the night, after Leuan left, Gwen heard Gwilym breathing raggedly and trying not to sob. The sound made her heart ache.

A second dawn approached. 

Gwen opened her eyes to see a hooded man silhouetted in the doorway of the bedchamber. No knight or servant accompanied him, and the guards at the gates and the doors must have let him pass. Gwilym scrambled up with a hand on the hilt of his dagger but Gwen, recognizing the man from the bonfires, let him pass.

Without a word, the Druid priest went to the bed and placed his hand low on Lady Duana’s abdomen. Gwilym, who Gwen judged barely clinging to sanity, watched as if he thought he dreamed. 

“A life for a life,” the priest said in a tongue Gwen did not think Gwilym spoke.

“My life for theirs,” Gwilym promised. “For Duana and this child.”

“You cannot set the terms,” the Druid said, and a shiver crept down Gwen’s aching back. “Only do what is necessary, when it is necessary, to protect what you love.”

Still, Gwilym nodded.

In the darkness a light passed from the Druid priest’s hand to the blanket covering her ladyship. Lady Duana had inhaled a deep breath but otherwise not moved. Gwilym took her hand.

Gwen had watched. She was no stranger to Druid mysteries but she had witnessed nothing like this. 

“Life for life,” the Druid reminded Gwilym. Next, the priest put his hand on Gwilym’s shoulder and said, “Sleep.”

Lord Gwilym lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, still holding Lady Duana’s hand.

As the priest left, he nodded to Gwen. She did not recall hearing the office door open or close, or his footsteps descending the stairs.

Life for life. Gwen put her hand on Lady Duana’s little belly, then chest. Her ladyship still breathed. Gwen folded the covers down. No fresh blood spotted the sheets. 

Unsure what else to do, Gwen set a chair beside the bed and resumed keeping watch as Gwilym slept. After a time, Duana rolled to her side. Her eyes did not open but she breathed calmly. Gwen checked, felt the baby alive, and woke Gwilym. 

Now, Gwilym put his hand on Duana’s abdomen and nodded to Gwen the baby continued to move.

"When she wakes, I will give her willow bark tea," Gwen said. "She must drink, and I think the vomiting has passed."

Gwilym nodded his consent.

Gwen had never been blessed with a child as a young woman, when she shared a bed with Gwilym's father. After the Old Lord left for the Crusades, she contented herself with the kitchens and doting on young Llwynog ap Gwilym. Though she never understood the workings of Gwilym's mind - as a boy or a man - he was as close as she had to a son and the child Lady Duana carried, the closest to a grandson. Sweet Eimile was beautiful with her blonde curls and blue eyes, but Gwen had seen the marks on Lady Duana and she could count nine months, the same as the rest of the castle. Eimile was no more Gwilym's blood than Dafydd had been.

Gwen overheard some knights - well into their cups one night and far, far from Gwilym's ears - speculate the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed Prince Llewelyn fathered Eimile. Gwen suspected that was the truth. It explained Gwilym not sending Eimile to a nunnery, but also what happened last year when the Prince of Wales brought the news of Dafydd's death. 

Gwen could not see how Lady Duana's child was more legitimate than the Prince's other bastard sons, but she did not know Norman law. She was certain Prince Llewelyn had wanted Lady Duana and her unborn baby to leave with him. Prince Llewelyn wanted the baby enough he seemed willing to have his men challenge Gwilym and take Lady Duana by force. The two men brawled like boys in the bailey but struck some bargain. Gwilym took Lady Duana on a pilgrimage, saying they prayed for Dafydd's soul. But they returned to Aber only after the baby was born and merely a girl. 

Gwen knew Prince Llewelyn visited Aber. He talked with Lady Duana and sometimes held Eimile. Gwen told herself, like most Welshmen, Prince Llewelyn was fond of children. Particularly his own. And that secret was between Gwilym and Llewelyn. And, in repayment for those marks on Lady Duana, Gwen made a point to spit in the Prince’s food.

This child Lady Duana carried now, it was blessed and it was Llwynog ap Gwilym's and it was a son. Gwen knew those things as certainly as she knew east. Gwilym was foolish to take Lady Duana among the MayDay bonfires, but the boy was like his father: curious and rash. Gwen remembered other MayDay celebrations when she was young and the rash, curious Lord of Aber with her was Gwilym's father.

Gwilym had been quiet a long time. He sat on the side of the bed and studied his sleeping wife. 

"I think she will wake, Llwynog." Gwen spoke as if he was still a child. "I think, in time, she will be well."

“I think so too, Gwen,” he answered. “I had a dream. Such an odd dream.”

“You are tired. I will sit with her ladyship and wake you once she wakes. Rest, Llwynog.” 

Gwilym obediently curled up beside his wife with his hand on her abdomen, in the same place the Druid priest touched not an hour earlier. 

"Leave my son only when he no longer has need of you," had been the last thing the Old Lord ever said to Gwen. She had watched Gwilym bring Dafydd and his infant daughter to say goodbye to their grandfather, and Father Leuan performed Last Rites. After that, Gwen had been alone at the MayDay bonfires. 

A candle flickered on the shelf above his head and, as dawn approached, Gwilym’s eyes closed.

*~*~*~*

The servants fed a forest of firewood into the office's hearth before Gwilym was satisfied with the room's temperature. Every few minutes, maids brought up a fresh bucket of hot water for Duana's bath, keeping it warm, too.

Gwen did most of the bathing but Gwilym helped, though he had never bathed anyone except himself before. He washed the blood from Duana's forehead and her hair. Her palms had scrapes where she had tried to catch herself, and the swollen cut on her forehead was black and purple. Her belly bore bruises as well - ugly ones making Gwilym wish he could dig up the foreigner and kill him again. Slowly. Painfully. Using hot pokers and dull knives.

He kept imagining a gush of blood from between her legs but saw none. 

Gwilym brought Eimile, but the baby wanted to splash in the water and bounce on Duana. So Gwilym squatted down beside the tub and held Eimile, letting Duana see her. Duana smiled and touched Eimile. Within minutes though, Duana slept again, and Gwilym could not manage the wiggly baby and still ensure Duana did not slip below the water's surface. A maid arrived with the next bucket of hot water, so Gwilym had the woman take Eimile to her nurse. 

In the four days since her fall, Duana seldom remained awake for long. She lingered at the edge of consciousness, and Gwilym wondered who or what lingered with her, secret and unseen, but comforting. Was ‘Mulder’ a dead lover? A saint? One of the pagan Old Ones, standing guard over the child he helped create?

"Duana," Gwilym said, and she opened her eyes sleepily. "I am going to pick you up."

Gwen held a blanket in front of the fire to warm it.

He lifted her out of the water and held her upright long enough for Gwen to wrap the blanket around Duana’s nakedness. Gwen had a clean chemise ready, but Gwilym shook his head. Instead, he carried Duana to the bedchamber and eased her down on the clean sheets. He pulled the wet blanket from around her and folded up the fur coverlet so she stayed warm. He took her hand, but she was asleep again.

In the next room, two maids began emptying the bathtub one bucketful at a time. 

"Gwen made soup for you," he said. "Stay awake and eat." She opened her eyes. Gwilym pushed her hair back from her poor forehead. "You must eat."

"What has happened?" Duana asked uncertainly. "Am I ill?"

"You fell from your horse." He saw her hand move to her belly. "The baby seems fine," he assured her. "A doctor is coming." 

"You have blood on your shirt."

Gwilym glanced down. The bathwater had soaked his shirtfront, and the shirt gray last week looked a rust color. 

He stood up and stripped off the ruined shirt. Gwilym found blood dried across his stomach and on the front of his breeches. His hands and forearms were clean from being in the bathwater, but the waist of his linen braies - also stained with her blood.

Something deep inside him began to quake violently. 

His hands shook as he took off the rest of his clothes. He pulled on clean underclothes and breeches and a shirt. He looked in the metal mirror. The stubbled face it reflected looked tired but determined. Like internal bleeding from a hard blow, the terror he felt must not show on the outside. He felt it hemorrhaging inside him, though. 

Gwilym returned to the bed and picked up the bowl of soup. He persuaded Duana to take three sips before she shook her head.

"You must eat," he said again.

With her eyes closed, she shook her head again. "Mulder, no," she said tiredly, in French rather than Welsh. "I want to rest."

"It is Gwilym," he said shakily. "Cariad... Duana, it is your husband. Do you know me?"

She opened her eyes and looked at him sitting near her on their bed. "I do," she said in a soft voice. "Stay with me. I need you."

Not sure what else to do, Gwilym put the bowl aside and lay down beside Duana, on top of the furs. He put his face against her side and his arm across her legs. 

"Stay with me," he told her hoarsely. "I need you, too."

Gwilym heard the maids and Gwen in the next room, as well as the people working outside in the bailey. He assumed throughout his kingdom the peasants harvested crops and prepared for winter. Further afield, the Normans quarreled and plotted among themselves. Merfyn and Leuan and Gwen would run the castle and keep the peace and even care for Eimile. Someone had said Merfyn's babies arrived safely. A message from the new Norman boy-King sat on Gwilym's desk, still sealed.

The King could wait. Llewelyn's wars and Gwilym's kingdom and even God could wait. Everything concerning Gwilym at the moment was in this room.

*~*~*~*

By the time Merfyn arrived with a doctor, the need for one had passed. Still, a bargain was a bargain.

Merfyn and Mawr dragged the man across the Welsh border, into the mountains of Gwynedd, into Aber Castle and to Gwilym's bedchamber. They had not ‘found’ a Norman doctor, but rather ‘kidnapped’ one. Despite the promise of fifty shillings payment, Gwilym understood the doctor's displeasure. 

Leuan explained to the physician what had happened, and Gwilym and Merfyn stood by in the bedchamber. Duana slept.

"Lady Duana had some fever, but it has passed," Leuan told the doctor in French. "The bleeding stopped days ago, but she is still weak."

The physician looked over Duana critically. He reached out to twist a strand of her hair between his fingers and stroked her hand like a lover. 

Gwilym did not like this Donaes de Pasquier.

"This girl has too much black bile. Her skin is dry. I will bleed her to balance the humors." The doctor spoke slowly, as if to children. "It will help the fever to cut her hair. By God's grace, you have not killed her with your barbaric herbs and soups and teas. After I have bathed her, I will need topaz, garnet, fragrant oils, powdered hartshorn, black crab claws, the kidney stone of a goat and the semen of a goose. Mugwort and dill to protect me, as well. Several lengths of strong rope. I have my own knives."

Gwilym understood the man's French well enough to be puzzled, but Merfyn had to wait on Leuan to translate before he said, "Semen of a goose?"

Gwen arrived with the armload of candles the doctor requested - although why he wanted candles at midday remained a mystery - and paused as well.

Merfyn left, mumbling about a goose.

"We bathed my wife yesterday." Gwilym spoke in French and for the first time. "I do not want you to touch her, nor bleed her." Men said Court doctors could treat noblewomen without laying a hand on them. He did not see why this man could not do the same, since he claimed to be a physician to kings.

Leuan translated. Once Leuan finished speaking, the doctor looked Gwilym as if wanting to know who dared to cross him.

"You will not touch my wife." Gwilym worried at how much Duana slept but he agreed with Gwen. Duana would live. On the battlefield, unchecked bleeding meant death. Gwilym had never understood the Norman's belief bleeding increased health. 

"I will not be questioned by some Welsh devil. If you want your wife to live, do as I direct." The physician replied in a low and melodic voice, as though he cared little one way or the other. "Or, I can leave and let her die."

Gwilym, his patience stretched thin by fear and lack of sleep, put a hand on his dagger. 

"Gwilym." Leuan intervened quickly. "Donaes has come a long way at your insistence. Lady Duana is sick." Then in French, "My apologies, Donaes de Pasquier. Lord William is devoted to his wife." The priest paused, and said tactfully. "We respect your knowledge, but I must agree: it is not proper for you to touch another man's wife. Is there nothing else you can suggest?"

He heard a commotion in the bailey: Welsh curses combined with frantic honking and flapping as someone tried to catch one of the geese Gwen fattened up for the Christmas feast. 

Gwilym kept his mouth shut and let Leuan speak, since the priest seemed in agreement with Gwilym: this was foolishness. The Knights Templar physician who treated Gwilym’s wound as a boy suggested none of these things, nor did Duana want them if someone was ill. If this doctor could be useful, let him. If not, Gwilym would pay him and send him on his way.

Rather than conversing with Leuan, the doctor turned to Gwilym. 

"Your wife is a witch," Donaes explained, speaking slowly. "The herb your priest said she asked for, mealladh na minnseach, is used by witches."

"Lady Duana is skilled with herbs, but she is no witch,” Leuan said. “She is an iachawr, a healer. We guessed at what she said. Probably, she asked for her mother."

Donaes did not acknowledge the priest had spoken. He continued to watch Gwilym.

Gwilym stared back until Donaes looked away.

"Watch, Lord William." The doctor pulled a red stone on a long, thin chain from his pocket and held it over Duana's little belly. "If the stone swings side-to-side, the child is of man. If it swings in a circle, it is a changeling."

Leuan stepped closer. Gwen stopped lighting candles to watch. The red stone pendant circled the swell of Duana's stomach. Leuan's eyes widened and Gwilym's heart beat faster.

"This is a pagan land and this baby demon-spawned," the doctor said. "That is why your wife is still sick after her fall. The evil bleeding from the child pollutes her blood. If I can purge the evil from her, she may live. If not, at least she will die purified."

Leuan began to object for a dozen different reasons - including destroying the child was a mortal sin - but Gwilym interrupted. "This is a child of the Beltane fires," he said quickly. "My child. Not a changeling. A child of the old Druid ways. That is all your pendant shows."

The priest looked from Lady Duana in the bed to Gwilym. "Llwynog!" he said, sounding aghast.

Gwilym shifted from foot to foot. 

"Llwynog, what are you thinking?" Leuan demanded in the tone he used to scold a ten-year-old boy caught stealing apples. "Go to the chapel and pray. I will hear your confession. And you-" he turned to the doctor and said in French, "You will not touch Lady Duana. It is not proper, and we have had enough impropriety." Father Leuan called for Gwilym’s knights, who arrived and escorted Donaes de Pasquier from the bedchamber.

Donaes opened his mouth to protest, but it did not seem wise to question the priest. Later. There would be plenty of time to deal with this girl later.

Gwilym stomped through the hallway and down the stairs, ignoring the servants' questioning looks. As he crossed the bailey, dogs and chickens scurried out of his way. Merfyn triumphantly held up the big goose he had caught.

Gwilym stalked past him. 

The sergeant's face fell. 

*~*~*~*

"I know," Gwilym said miserably, before Leuan had a chance to begin the lecture the priest surely planned. They knelt together in front of the high alter. "I know what I have done. I will do whatever penance you decide but truly, Leuan, there was no evil or witchcraft. We are guilty of drunkenness and foolishness, but not evil. I have watched this child grow inside her and it is of man. One man: me.”

A long time passed before Father Leuan spoke. “You have ridden on Crusade, Gwilym, and helped reclaim the Holy Land from the Infidels. You have given generously to Aber Church and St. Mary’s Abbey. You have prayed for a son. Bought masses. You have done things pleasing in the eyes of God. I have prayed with Lady Duana for the Virgin to bless her. I do not judge my Llwynog wholly without carnal sin, but this is your Christian wife, and you are as deserving of a child as any other Christian man. Yet months passed.” Leuan spoke quietly, though they knelt alone in the castle's chapel. “And your wife did not conceive.”

Gwilym's shoulders slumped and his head hung rather than tilted forward. His temples pounded. Above him, the beautiful carving of Christ and the Virgin looked down. Paintings of the saints hung on the walls: all men and women above the doubts and willfulness plaging Gwilym. He had visited eight churches in the Holy Land claiming to house Christ's true cross. Gwilym had never seen a man crucified, but doubted it took more than one cross. By his calculations, at least seven of those priests were wrong. 

Gwilym had no place in this world. He could not blindly follow the Church – or the King – but neither could he truly turn away. 

“You must know what else I have done, Leuan,” Gwilym said softly. “What I am. You know the sin I am guilty of and why the Christian God did not give my Christian wife a child.”

“An eye for an eye,” Leuan said quietly. “That is God’s word. Do not presume to know the mind of God.”

For a moment, Gwilym felt as if his entire world had tilted and everyone shifted out of their place. Leuan, who chastised Gwilym for not looking sufficiently dour during Mass, dismissed high treason without a thought.

“Leuan, I did take my wife among the pagan bonfires. Not seeking a child, but... If your mother was a Druid, you must know something of their magic. What have I done? The doctor’s pendant: what does it truly show?”

“A great blessing,” the priest said. “A blessing for you, and for Wales. If you go baiting dragons, Llwynog, expect to catch one. The Old Gods judged you worthy of this child, and perhaps the Christian God judged you worthy, as well. Regardless, I promise you: with this blessing comes great trial and responsibility. Winter approaches, and I- I must make a choice soon, Llwynog. I must choose between my duty to you, and my duty to others. You-”

“This duty, Father-” Gwilym interrupted without looking away from the alter. “-does it involve a blonde Manx widow who, months ago, I gave leave to return to her homeland? A woman my knights assure me has never set foot in this castle? Have you secretly pledged yourself to her?”

Father Leuan did not answer. 

“Duana saw you among the bonfires,” Gwilym said. He wondered if Leuan planned to leave Aber and go after the Norse woman. The Bishop would likely look the other way if Leuan took a mistress, but not a hearth wife. For a priest, leaving the Church meant excommunication. The Pope reigned over the known world; there was no place to leave to. “You are not the first man to fall in love ill-advisedly. To be- Besotted, I believe is the term. I can have this woman return, Leuan. I do own the damn island.”

“Do not curse, Llwynog.”

“Blessed Virgin, forgive me,” Gwilym said automatically.

The candles burned and the saints’ statues looked down at them. 

After eons, Leuan said, “I fear I cannot be the man you need me to be.”

“You have nursed my boyhood scrapes and come to my aid in whorehouse brawls, Father,” Gwilym said. “You baptized my children and buried my losses. You have ridden beside me on Crusade and, if not aided in high treason, at least assisted in eluding the King’s orders. You have advised me and blessed me and forgiven my sins. Now, as we discuss how the Druids have given my Christian wife a child – a fact I shared with a Norman doctor - you still chide me for cursing in Church. I think you will always be the man I need you to be.”

Gwilym saw Leuan smile tiredly and felt the priest pat his shoulder. “A son, Llwynog. The Druids have given you a son. Wales needs an heir. A Christian child of a Christian marriage who can guard the pass between the old and the new.”

For once Gwilym kept his mouth closed and did not ask how the priest could know that. “What do I do, Leuan?”

“You will do what is necessary, when it is necessary, as all good men do,” Father Leuan advised. “The doctor cannot return to England claiming your wife a witch and your son demon-spawned or a changling.” Father Leuan paused. “Once her ladyship wakes, I will give her the sacraments in front of Donaes de Pasquier. Her body will not reject them, which proves her innocence. Where is the simple cross she wears? She should wear it."

Gwilym had to think. "I will get her another." He looked up, into the eyes of God, and down again. "If you cannot convince the doctor, tell me. I will see he does not survive his return to England."

Instead of rebuking Gwilym or being aghast, Father Leuan said, "I shall, my lord." 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym called it delegating; Leuan called it shirking his duties. Gwilym’s sheriffs could settle most peasants' quarrels, collect rent, and see the peace was kept. Still, some duties fell to the Lord of Gwynedd. Once a month, at the designated hour, the castle's great hall opened to the public and, if he could not get Duana to do it, Gwilym's presence was required.

Though he looked the part of nobleman, with his fine tunic and surcoat and cloak and signet ring, Gwilym slouched grudgingly on the dais. Tension filled the room, as though everyone expected Gwilym to draw his sword and behead the first person who annoyed him.

The small, ornate chair beside him remained empty. 

Two dogs lounged nearby but most remained upstairs guarding Duana. Eimile amused herself by holding onto the edge of the dais and creeping around it. Her nursemaid followed nervously. Sometimes, Eimile crawled to one of the knights who flanked the platform and held the hem of his tunic as she continued her laps. Leuan sat at a table nearby, acting as scribe in Duana's absence. Gwilym could have kept the records himself, though not if they must be legible.

People filled the great hall. Gwilym dreaded hearing whatever each of them wanted. He nodded to Mawr, who signaled the first in line: a young farmer with a pregnant young woman. Gwilym glanced at the back of the room. Many of the women he saw were roughly as pregnant as Duana. It amazed Gwilym he and Duana had not tripped over all the couples among the Beltane fires last May.

A brilliant idea struck Gwilym. He stood. The hall of anxious people fell silent. "Any of you who want to be married, you have my permission." He gestured irritably to Leuan. "See the priest."

Half of the peasants lined up in front of Leuan, two by two, like animals boarding the ark. Father Leuan frowned at Gwilym.

"If you want my leave to travel this winter, you have it," Gwilym announced next. "Tell Father Leuan, and return by spring planting."

Wonderfully, the majority of souls filed over to have Leuan record their names and plans. Leuan's line snaked nearly to the staircase across the room, but two dozen people remained to speak with Gwilym. Most were musicians and actors who sought patronage, or merchants who peddled goods. 

He saw two knights with their wives, each woman holding an infant the men planned to pledge to him. They were not Gwilym's elite cavalry, but knights from southern Gwynedd; they had traveled two days to be granted an audience. Mawr Hyll whispered with the knights, likely apprising them of Duana's health and advising they return another time.

Gwilym exhaled and gestured for the knights to bring their sons and come forward.

Next, he sent a cloth merchant to the kitchens to find Gwen. Gwen would know if Duana needed new dresses or things for the baby, and what fabric Duana would like. A lute player, an acrobat, and a juggler he sent away, feeling disinclined to amusements at the moment.

Eimile passed in front of the dais holding on with one hand as she toddled. Gwilym managed a tight smile for her.

He looked up again to see one person remained to speak to him: a tall, pretty blonde woman with a cut on her cheekbone and an ugly black and yellow bruise around one eye. Surprised, he gestured for Muretta to come forward. She looked as uncomfortable as the other peasants seeking an audience, but Muretta was a stranger to the castle only as of late. 

Gwilym gritted his teeth at the covert looks following her as she approached.

"What is your business?" Gwilym asked formally, but thought his voice sounded harsher than he intended. 

Muretta held out a light-colored bundle - flat, neatly tied, and small enough to rest on her palm. As people stared, she untied the string and unfolded the fabric to reveal a small leather cross, beautifully tooled and gilded. "My husband sends this."

Gwilym nodded. The closest goldsmith or silversmith was a day's ride south, but the tanner lived near Aber Village. Gwilym did not want to wait a week to have a cross suitable for Duana to wear.

"Why did your husband not bring it himself?" Gwilym again wished he sounded less critical. His displeasure stemmed from the tanner's cowardice, not his leatherwork.

She held her head high and said neutrally, "He sent me, my lord." 

Gwilym thought Muretta's choice to marry his tanner unwise, but his chance to convince her of that had long passed. Instead, Gwilym nodded curtly the cross was fine. "I am glad to see you are mending," he said, which was the truth. "Father Leuan will see your husband is paid and my men will accompany you home."

"My lord-" He saw Muretta take a breath. "Your knight said this is for your wife. I want it to be a gift."

Gwilym leaned forward in his chair. The gold leaf must have come from the monks of St. Mary's Abbey. The tanner had no horse; either he or Muretta walked a day to reach the abbey to purchase the expensive leaf, followed by a long, cold day's walk back to Aber. Again, Gwilym thought his former mistress left him to marry the village idiot. Either the tanner left Muretta alone in their hut for two days - bruised and frightened - or sent her to the abbey get the gold leaf. Now the tanner offered a gift he could ill-afford. If Gwilym did not pay him, Muretta and the tanner would starve this winter.

"I am not angry with you," Gwilym said firmly. "Nor angry with your husband, though sending his pretty wife to do his errands - alone, yet again - does not please me. My anger is with the foreigner whose unsanctified body lies rotting in his grave."

"My husband sends his gratitude to you," she said earnestly, though Gwilym suspicioned her husband did no such thing. "The cross is a gift to your wife, though. From me."

The glances stopped being covert. The crowd listened to their conversation intently. Even Leuan stopped writing.

Gwilym considered a moment. "Is it yours to give?"

Except for the bruises, she looked like her usual self as she answered, "My husband gave this cross to me and said I should give it to you, my lord. That is what I shall do."

"Your husband will be displeased." 

Muretta did not answer aloud but, as she faced Gwilym, her expression indicated privately she doubted her husband could be more displeased with her than he was. 

Gwilym stood and stepped down from the dais. Every eye in the great hall followed him. 

Father Leuan cleared his throat disapprovingly.

Gwilym picked up Eimile. Standing a polite distance from Muretta, he requested, "Show me this gift."

"He finished it this morning," Muretta told Gwilym. "I helped with the stamping, and-" She did not touch Gwilym, nor touch the leather cross with her bare hand, but folded back the fabric to show him. "There is a new ribbon to tie it."

"It is lovely work." He finally sounded as he meant to. "I think my wife will like it."

"Will you tell her ladyship it is a gift?" Muretta asked. "From me?"

Father Leuan cleared his throat again, louder.

Gwilym ignored Leuan. "Would you like to give the cross to her ladyship yourself?"

Muretta's eyes widened. "Me? Now?"

"Now is a fine time." Duana had no memory of her fall but Gwilym told her what happened: of the foreigner and the peasant woman and the botched hanging. This morning, Duana asked about the woman’s injuries. Gwilym had no answers except to say she was alive.

The knights parted, making a path for Gwilym. Eimile's nursemaid came forward, and Gwilym gave her the toddler. Eimile still could not understand not to bounce on Duana. So close to her naptime, the little girl would wail if she saw Duana but could not touch her. 

Muretta’s eyes followed the nursemaid carrying Eimile away. 

At his table in the great hall, with his quill poised over the ledger, Father Leuan sounded like he choked on a chicken bone.

Gwilym and Muretta reached the relative privacy of the stone stairs. Muretta whispered worriedly, "Gwil, is your wife-"

"She is alive," Gwilym said. "She is weak, but awake. Lucid. Her forehead is cool. My wife will live.” He added, “And our child lives inside her."

"The Virgin was most merciful."

He said tightly, "That depends on your definition of mercy."

Muretta did not respond, but stopped at the top of the steps. Gwilym stopped with her. “You spoke the truth this summer,” she said hesitantly. “Your daughter is nearly as beautiful as her mother. I have seen her ladyship in the village, but not the baby until now. Your daughter puts me in mind of Dafy, when he was small.” She took his hand. “You are to have another?”

Gwilym nodded.

“A son?” she asked softly.

“We pray so,” he said.

“I asked, and so the monks at St. Mary’s showed me the tomb.” Muretta squeezed his hand. “When word came of Dafy, my husband and I went to Aber Church and prayed for the boy’s soul, Gwil. He was such a fine boy. I still look for him to come tearing through the village on that pony of his.”

Gwilym swallowed and said tightly, “I am grateful to you.”

"I am grateful to you too. That man - it helps to know he is dead."

"I think it would."

"A monk told me rapists are only hanged for forcing Norman noblewomen."

"The Virgin is merciful; harm what is mine, and I am not." Changing the subject, Gwilym said, "My knights will accompany you home. You will ride, and the knights will leave the horse. That should cover the cost of your husband's work. Your husband can keep the horse or sell it and keep the money."

Muretta did not agree or refuse.

The guards moved to open the office door, but Gwilym had them wait. 

She still held Gwilym’s hand.

In the shadows at the other end of the hall, the Norman doctor lurked, watching them. His manner was unassuming for such a large man, but his eyes gleamed hungrily. Father Leuan had given Duana the sacraments in front of the doctor, which stemmed the talk of demon-spawned babies. Now, Donaes de Pasquier warned of witches he claimed endangered Duana. He wanted to bleed her and bathe her, which Gwilym forbade. The doctor wanted to cut her hair to protect her. He persisted until, to pacify him, Gwilym gave him the long auburn braid cut the previous fall. That, it seemed, had been a mistake.

Gwilym ignored the doctor and instead focused on Muretta. "Your husband's displeasure will pass." He advised her quietly, as one friend to another. "You remain a lovely woman and he a fortunate man. The bruises - They are unnerving but once they heal, what is out of sight, for men, is quickly out of mind. After that, the choice is yours. Choose wisely," he urged. Perhaps a wealthy, widowed freeman who would be good to her, with children or grandchildren she could fuss over, and possessing more sense than a goose.

Muretta looked at the floor but squeezed Gwilym’s hand again.

The sound of footsteps tripped up the stairs. Eimile's young nursemaid appeared, carrying the sleepy little girl. Seeing the woman, Muretta took a step back from Gwilym and let go of his hand.

Gwilym nodded to the guards to open the office door.

Donaes de Pasquier moved forward as if hoping to be admitted. Gwilym looked at him sternly, and the doctor slipped back into the corner to wait.

*~*~*~*

Though Gwilym did not join in, Aber celebrated Nos Galan Gaeaf – the last night of summer – until the evening grew too cold and late for festivities. Duana’s people held Samhain and the Church, All Souls’ Eve. Soon, little cakes would be baked and given in payment for prayers for the dead. At dawn, Calan Gaeaf and All Souls’ Day arrived. Bonfires would be built, little boys would bob for apples, and fortunes would be told. Candles would be lit and flowers strewn. Tonight, at midnight, summer ended but winter had not yet come. The night existed outside of time. The doors to the world of the dead opened and, for the Celts, monsters and troubled souls roamed the Earth.

Tomorrow morning, Gwilym planned to announce Duana’s pregnancy. 

Eimile sucked her thumb as she slept, and Duana kept a hand on her little belly. Gwilym lay in bed with them, fully dressed. His dagger remained on his waist and his sword within arm’s reach. In the distant valley, wolves howled at the full hunter’s moon. On the other side of the castle, the Irish Sea battered the base of the cliff. The castle slept with its wooden eyes shuttered tight to the cold autumn night. The fire in the bedroom hearth burned low; orange and white coals popped and hissed. A lone candle glowed in the nook at the head of their bed, marking the passage of the lost hours.

Gwilym held the doctor’s red stone pendant over Duana’s abdomen. It swung in a small but unmistakable circle. He moved it over Eimile and, curious, over his own body. The stone swung silently from side-to-side. He held the stone over Duana again. The circular motion returned.

Duana shifted in her sleep, moving as if the baby inside her was restless. The little leather cross hung from a ribbon around her neck. The gold glinted in the candlelight.

Gwilym secreted the stolen pendent in his pocket again.

The wind rattled the bedchamber’s shutters insistently.

He tucked Duana’s auburn hair behind her ear. The cut near her hairline would scar, but had closed cleanly. As Gwilym watched the candlelight play over her bruised face, Duana opened her eyes. 

“You are keeping watch?” She whispered as Eimile slept soundly between them.

“Over all three of you,” Gwilym assured her. “Sleep, Cariad.”

Duana closed her eyes, only to open them again a moment later. “I wish you would sleep, as well, William.”

“Once I am certain you are safe.” 

A wolf howled, and another answered it. On the floor beside Gwilym and Duana’s bed, the dogs got to their feet. Metal armor clinked in the hall as one of the knights guarding the office and bedchamber shifted.

Duana’s eyes remained open. Gwilym put his hand over hers and waited, sensing she wanted something.

“The man who raped the peasant woman,” Duana asked. “Alex. Is he dead?”

“He is very dead. Dead with no hope of ever even reaching purgatory.” He hesitated. “I judged you recognized him.”

Matching his quiet tone, Duana responded. “I judged you have been with that peasant woman.”

Gwilym shook his head. 

“She is a strikingly beautiful woman.”

“I did not notice.”

Duana regarded him steadily. “There are drawings of her in your desk, William. Several drawings, dear husband, none of which include her clothing.”

“I know nothing of these drawings, but burn them, if they trouble you.” He toyed with the sheet. “You did not marry a boy, Cariad, but I have not been with any woman except you this season, or last season, or within any season worth concerning yourself about. You are my wife. For a year and a day,” he said. “I do not take that lightly.”

“Nor do I,” she promised. 

Gwilym took a slow breath. “While you were ill, you asked for someone. A man with a foreign name.” 

She looked uncertain.

“Muldar,” he prompted. 

Duana’s head rustled the pillow as she shook it. “I do not remember asking for anyone.”

“This man,” he said, “Muldar. Mulder. You said you needed him.” He waited expectantly.

“You did not marry a girl, William - but I have no need of any man alive except you. Not now, and not as long as I live.”

He traced his fingertip down her cheek and told her that was the correct answer. 

She smiled. But her smile faded. “William, that doctor- I do not like him.”

“That doctor called me ‘a Welsh devil,’ and his eyes linger too long on my pretty wife. No love is lost between us,” Gwilym said lightly. “Still, you and the baby are alive and mending, and for that I am grateful. I will deal with him.”

“I want you to send him away.”

“My men guard the door day and night, and will not admit him except on my command,” he assured Duana casually. “Put the doctor out of your mind.”

He did not tell Duana early the previous morning he encountered Donaes de Pasquier creeping into the office, coming to “check” on “the girl.” Duana knew nothing of the doctor’s accusation of witchcraft or desire to “purge” the baby from her body, or of Gwilym’s blunder in mentioning the MayDay ceremony. Or, though Gwilym paid Donaes and offered him safe passage out of Wales, Donaes remained lurking in the dim corners of Aber Castle. The doctor was not such a raving lunatic no one in London would believe his stories of Welsh witchcraft, nor was he just odd and infatuated. Something in the man seemed truly evil. Evil and focused on Duana. Gwilym had never killed a demon before but if Leuan’s diplomacy failed, there was a first time for everything.

“William, I want you to send the doctor away,” she repeated earnestly. “Do not let him return. I fear he is dangerous.”

Gwilym wholeheartedly but silently agreed. 

Outside, the wolves and wind continued to howl.

He put his hand on the gentle swell of belly. “Cariad-” He watched her face in the shadows. If the doctor could not be persuaded to leave in the morning, Gwilym would carve him into bait and drop him in an old copper mine without a second thought. That resolved the problem and some god might view it as a good deed: ridding the world of a monster rather than committing yet another murder. Instead of telling Duana, he said, “There is so much at stake. I, I would not allow anything or anyone to jeopardize this.”

She looked down sadly, and he regretted his choice of words. “I know,” she said, her voice small. “I too pray for a healthy son.” She paused, and added, “I never should have pestered you to take me riding. I-” 

He interrupted. “You mean a great deal to me. You are at stake, and I will not lose you.” He opened his mouth, but like his right hand’s damaged connection to his thoughts after the wound, talk of love no longer flowed easily from his lips after so much grief. “I- This – You and I, a year and a day,” he said awkwardly, “Mean more than I have words for.”

Duana looked up, seeming surprised. 

He moved his palm to her chest, over her heartbeat. “I will deal with the doctor; put him out of your mind. I will not allow anything or anyone – man or woman, peasant, king, or the Devil himself - to jeopardize us. Trust I will keep you safe. You and Eimile and this child that is coming. Always. As long as I live. Even after, if I can manage it.”

After a second, Duana nodded she understood.

As he had the first night she arrived in Aber, Gwilym said, “Sleep. I will keep watch.”

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym sat against the edge of his desk and drummed his fingers against the scarred wood. “Read to me what I have so far," he requested tersely.

Duana pushed the inkwell away from him - as though he would be careless enough to spill it twice in one morning - and read in French, "'Done by the hand of Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, this seventeenth day of December in the second year of the reign of King Henry. Your most Royal Highness, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, greeting.' William, I am not sure the young King still holds Anjou and the Aquitaine, but that is what you said," she added. 

"Go on," he urged. He looked over his shoulder at her. 

Duana picked up the quill again, stretching over her belly to reach the parchment. She waited. High on her forehead, the pink, raised scar looked irritable against her white skin. Gwilym resumed watching the hearth.

"Go on," he repeated. Gwilym had composed this letter for an eternity. "Read where I spoke of this ridiculous idea a vassal's service to his liege lord can carry over into the next year. My army not serving forty days this year does not mean the Norman brat-King can call me to war eighty days next year or one-hundred and twenty the next. I equip my men for forty days' service each year; after that, the Crown must pay us as mercenaries. The royal brat has no intention of reimbursing me for more than forty days, so I have no intention of serving them. Did you to write that?" 

"After you called King’s Royal Council ‘a den of Norman thieves and fork-tongued skinflints’ and alluded to treason, I merely listened.” She tapped the quill impatiently. “I did not mark it down." 

Gwilym twisted back to look at her, his mouth open and his forehead furrowed. "You did not mark it down?" 

She glanced up, seeming puzzled, and shook her head. 

"You did not mark it down? Was I talking to myself? Perhaps you can compose my letters for me if you are so wise?" 

"I do compose your letters for you, William, and I have for the past year." She sounded annoyed. Had she been Eimile, Gwilym would recommend a nap. "Please find something else to do and let me write this. I will leave it for you to read before I seal it. And please do not call him the 'brat-King' or the 'royal brat.' He is a little boy." 

"He is a little boy who can send me and my men to war for years, promising payment, and fail to keep his promise," he said. “As his father and uncle did before him. A little boy who sits on a throne to which I am required to kneel and swear fealty.”

Duana shifted in the chair as if trying to find a comfortable position. She said the baby had dropped and she could breathe easier, but her back seemed to ache to have the child so low in her belly. She averaged a trip to the privy per hour, by Gwilym's estimation, though he did not know if that was in any way significant.

"I can write, you know," he insisted like a petulant child. "I have you do it to practice." 

To her credit, his wife nodded as if that was the truth. Gwilym could keep a grip on the quill now, but Leuan edited all his correspondence for decades. Gwilym's tactical skills did not extend off the battlefield; for some reason men got upset at receiving letters speaking the truth. 

As Gwilym possessed an awkward hand and Duana possessed surprising combat skill with a small blade, he suggested rather than ordered, “I think you should rest.”

“I am resting,” she responded, predictably displeased. “I am at your desk, writing a letter. Later, for excitement, I may keep the ledger or set the supper menu. I sit, I lie down, and I sit some more. You may have conspired to keep me from leaving these rooms, but you cannot tie me to the bed.”

He considered. “At some future time – and when you are in better humor and lacking a passenger – you may tie me to the bed.”

Duana did not speak but her scowl reflected her enthusiasm.

"Do you understand what I want to say? A vassal's period of service is forty days each year, regardless of whether he was called to fight the previous year? After forty days in one year, the brat- The boy-King must pay me if he wants my army. Days may not be saved up and used all at once the way Gwen saves lard to make soap." 

"I will not mention lard to young Henry, but I understand. I cannot write with you chattering at me. I promise this baby will not be born or vanish if you leave me alone for ten minutes. Nor will I faint or trip over my own feet. I am fine." 

She stood and pressed her hands into the small of her back. 

Gwilym hovered.

"That is the problem, Cariad. Are you fine the way you are usually 'fine' - which is not fine at all - or truly fine? I wish you would specify your 'fines.' Are you 'fine' for a woman who is to have a baby in the New Year? Or 'fine' for a woman who should still be resting after she fell from her horse? Or 'fine' in some other way I am not familiar with?" 

Duana looked at him tiredly. She crossed her arms. "If you strike me without cause, is there a fine?" 

Gwilym nodded. Hitting a woman for no reason was a barbarous Norman custom. 

"What is the penalty if a wife beats her husband senseless for driving her insane?" 

He thought it over. No one ever asked Gwilym to judge something like that. Duana opened a money purse and began to count out coins. He took the hint. 

*~*~*~* 

The wind blew the snow across the bailey in white swirls and exposed the frozen ground beneath it. The sky was a threatening shade of gray. The water in a forgotten wooden bucket froze solid and little icicles decorated the edge of the well. Winter was upon them.

Gwilym waited in the relatively-warm doorway of the great hall until the stable boy brought Merfyn's gelding from the stable. 

"Where is my horse? My squire?" Gwilym asked. "Where is Goliath?" 

The boy brought a big chestnut gelding to a stop in front of Gwilym. Wisely, he kept his fingers away from the destrier’s mouth. "My lord, her ladyship said you were to have this horse today," he answered uncertainly.

Further information did not seem forthcoming, so Gwilym yelled, "Duana! Duana!" into the great hall, and outside, at corner of the castle. The shutters opened. His wife's head peeked out the narrow window of his office. Gwilym took a few steps out into the bailey. "Cariad, where is Goliath? I want to ride down to the village."

"Take Merfyn's horse." She squinted against the blowing sleet. "Your new cloak is ready if you want to wear it. That gray one you have on is ragged."

Gwilym ignored her fashion advice. "Where is my horse?"

"Goliath is at the smith's shed being shod. Your squire said he had a shoe loose this morning. Sir Melvin’s hip is acting up today; he is resting, so he will not need his horse. Leave Melvin’s horse at the blacksmith's to be shod and bring back Goliath. Your squire should be with Goliath at the smith's, but he has probably wandered off. Go to the tavern, untangle him from the cooper's youngest daughter, and tell him to wait with Melvin’s horse instead."

"Oh." She had it all worked out. "Leave Merfyn's horse and bring back Goliath?" 

"Wait. I am sending down a decent cloak for you." Duana started to close the shutters but stopped to watch a small woman speaking urgently to the guard. 

Gwilym, closer to the gate, heard the woman inform the old sentry, "Caithrin inghean Uilliam ui Scully." 

The knight nodded indulgently. She did not appear a beggar or a serf, but not a noblewoman, either. 

"Inion - Duana? Uilliam ui Aber ui Gwynedd?" she asked in Irish Gaelic.

"I am Uilliam. Gwilym of Aber." Gwilym pulled Merfyn's uncooperative war horse behind him by the reins. To the sentry, he instructed, "Show her to the kitchens before she freezes. Gwen will feed her, whoever she is." 

"Uilliam? Aber?" the woman asked again. "Caithrin inghean Mairghread ui Scully. Mathir ui Duana inghean Uilliam ui Scully. Inion? Duana!" 

Gwilym could make no sense of that rapid jumble, and he had begun to shiver. "Duana!" He bellowed across the bailey.

The Irish woman attacked him with questions like a crusader who finally caught sight of the Holy Land.

"I do not understand. No, I do not understand," Gwilym told her repeatedly in Welsh, in French, in Manx Gaelic, in English, and in desperation, even in Latin. "Duana is coming; she will understand." 

"Duana?" Her eyes lit up. "Duana inghean Uilliam ui Scully?" she said slowly. 

"Duana of Aber," Gwilym responded slowly, correcting her. He pointed to his chest. "I am William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. Lady Duana of the Scully clan is my wife, not my daughter. Are you a midwife? Did my wife send for you?" 

“Duana inghean Uilliam?”

"Duana, wife of William of Aber. Not daughter." The concept was not difficult: a man of almost forty could be married to a pretty woman of six and twenty. It was common, in fact. Preferable. "Wife. Not daughter." He gestured to Duana, who waddled across the frozen cobblestones, wrapped in her warmest cloak. "Duana." 

The dark-haired woman clasped her hands on either side of Gwilym's face. She pulled him down to her, kissed him full on the lips, and hurried past him. 

As Gwilym wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tried to recover his poise, the wizened sentry guard grinned. "A man could get used to such Irish customs.”

"I supposed she approves," Gwilym said uncertainly.

He heard excited female voices speaking the lilting, melodic tongue of Ireland, as though they made love to each word rather than pronounced it.

"Thank you so much, William," Duana called. Gwilym turned and saw her embracing the older woman. "What a wonderful New Year's gift!" 

New Year’s remained weeks away but Gwilym smiled and shrugged sheepishly. He had no idea what this was about, but would take credit if it was a good thing.

Nor did Gwilym recognize the next person through the gate of Aber Castle: an auburn-haired young man barely old enough to grow a beard. Whoever he was, he presented himself to Gwilym with a breathless bow. 

"My Lord, I have returned," the man announced in Welsh, forgetting to wait for Gwilym to acknowledge him before he spoke. His words hung in white vapor in front of his flushed face. "We are here."

"I see that." Duana and the woman disappeared inside the castle, arm in arm, leaving him forgotten at the gate. "Which part of this excitable 'we' are you?" 

"Pyn. Your seneschal. You sent me to bring Lady Duana's mother, and I have brought her. I am sorry; Caithrin left me in the village. I saw your horse alone at the blacksmith's and thought I should bring him back, but Caithrin did not wait as I told her." 

The guard leaned on his spear as if taking all this in with great amusement. So far today, the excitement was a mediocre dog fight and Father Leuan cursing as he slipped on the ice. Guard duty in winter was a frigid, boring affair. Seeing Lord Gwilym kissed by a strange Irish woman who turned out to be Lady Duana's mother: this must be the highlight of the old man's week. 

"Well, um - well done, Pyn. You are my what?" Gwilym asked uncertainly. 

"Sene-sa-chal," he pronounced slowly. "Seneschal. Like a steward. I am to oversee the castle for you: the household accounts, the kitchens, the stables. I know French and Irish and Manx, and some Latin. I can read and cypher and even write, some. Well, I have seen writing done, and it does not look hard."

"Who decided this?" 

"Lady Duana, of course." 

"Of course," Gwilym said sarcastically.

“She is with child, and I have left her alone all these weeks to oversee all of Aber,” Pyn babbled. “At least Father Leuan and Sir Merfyn are with her. The smith says Lady Duana is well, but to be alone and with child after such a fall, and all of Aber to oversee. But she asked for her mother...”

Gwilym, recognizing a lost cause, chose not to waste any more perfectly good sarcasm. He put his boot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle before Merfyn’s horse could bolt. Despite the tight reins pulling its mouth to its neck, the big chestnut reared his front feet off the ground. He tossed his head and chewed the bit irritably. Merfyn claimed his horse had spirit, but Gwilym thought it either demon-possession or a had vendetta against all humans for gelding him. 

Pyn, clearly another of Duana’s admirers, hurried into the castle after Duana and her mother, probably fearful Duana would sneeze and he would not be there to bless her.

Keeping the reins tight, Gwilym leaned down to the sentry, who had been married to the same woman for thirty years and would understand. "I am taking Merfyn's ill-mannered nag to the blacksmith and getting my own horse," Gwilym said with false, wide-eyed earnestness. "I will wear my old gray cloak and stop at the tavern to find my squire and have a tankard of ale or two or three, if I like. I will belch. Loudly. If I itch, I will scratch where I please. Upon my return to my castle, I will write my own letter to the King and warm my feet at my hearth with my dogs."

"I will inform her ladyship of your plans, my lord," the sentry replied.

Gwilym's mouth twitched until he gave up hope of decorum. "How did it come to this?" He chuckled. Duana would never argue with him in public or raise her voice to a servant, but the entire castle magically deferred to her. "One day, I looked up and found I was in charge of nothing except fathering children, fighting wars, and- No, I think that is all." 

"Those are the best parts," the old knight said with a gleam in his eye. "Would you have it any different?" 

Pyn bustled back out of the castle with Gwilym's new cloak, looking annoyingly self-important. 

"Of course not." Gwilym reined Merfyn's horse toward the village and left Pyn to yell after him and fruitlessly wave the new not-gray cloak. 

*~*~*~* 

Once, from a distance, Caithrin saw a count’s hunting party ride past. Several times she had waited outside a lord’s castle as the lord engaged her husband to build a tomb or repair a wall. She had never been inside a castle’s great hall, let alone in a lord’s bedchamber.

"He says a horse bit him," Duana translated for her mother. Duana stripped off Lord William's tunic and ruined shirt to reveal the wound. "He damages more clothing..."

Lord William stooped to show Caithrin the twin rows of tooth marks on his left shoulder, still telling his woeful tale. 

"A bloody, ungrateful, demon-possessed, bastard, eunuch of a horse bit him," Duana clarified in Irish-Gaelic.

Lord William nodded in satisfaction. 

Not sure what was expected of her and thoroughly intimidated, Caithrin did as she would with her own sons. She made the sympathetic face and clucked over him like a mother hen. Lord William, pacified, settled down on the stool by the fire to let Duana doctor him. 

Caithrin had heard stories of him, this warrior William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. Clearly some of the stories were true. The scars on his torso and arms told of a life of battle, and he had the air of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Caithrin would want her own sons on the same side of a war as William, but someone chose a good husband for Duana. 

This Duana. Lord William was good for this Duana, who was a stranger to Caithrin. Her daughter was a noblewoman who could read and write and speak foreign languages and had an army of servants at her disposal. Caithrin felt overwhelmed as she tried to reconcile the girl she remembered with this woman.

Duana had been a pretty, bright, though too outspoken girl. She was pretty enough, before he passed, Caithrin’s husband discussed engagement to several successful tradesmen and even a knight. Her daughter’s future seemed promising: a nice home of her own in Dublin, a kind, wealthy husband, and children, but Duana vanished. 

Caitrin's son Charles found Duana in Pembrokeshire years ago but could not persuade her to return home; he assured his mother she was well but said no more. By chance, her other son, Uillec, saw her at London Court while he was fortifying the castle walls. Uillec said Duana had been widowed and married to a Welshman but, like Charles, he deflected further questions. Whatever Uillec knew, it was not information he thought his mother should hear. Then, a foreign man appeared in Dublin babbling her daughter was dying and she must come. Caitrin boarded the ship expecting to find a corpse in the mountains of Wales, but she had wanted answers about what happened to her little girl. 

Caitrin was mortified to realize the tall, rather handsome man in the bailey was the lord of the castle; she had taken him for a scruffy knight. Duana had laughed. “William was twice as embarrassed as you,” she said, and that seemed the case. 

Now Duana translated the story her husband told: Lord William was holding a horse's head while it was shod. Caitrin was more interested in how he rested a hand on Duana's belly. Duana had shown her Eimile but this would be his first son, perhaps. 

He eyed the wine-soaked rag as Duana prepared to clean the wound - which was more a nip. The bite was nothing compared to the scars his body bore. To Caithrin's silent amusement, Lord William squirmed. He cursed, he kicked his heel against the rung of the stool, but he did not pull away. For a man who sparked with danger, he behaved like a child with a skinned knee around his wife.

"He wants to know if I am trying to kill or cure him," Duana translated as Lord William scowled at her. "I told him I will allow him to live but must torture him a bit. He annoyed me earlier." 

Caithrin put aside any remaining worries about whether her daughter was well-treated. She was protected and adored. However Duana had made her way first to Pembrokeshire and to the majestic heights of Gwynedd, God had been with her. 

Duana rested her forehead against Lord William’s for a moment. She said something, and Lord William answered affirmatively. Duana had told her mother they had been married not two years, but they looked comfortable together, as though each poured in and filled the cracks and crevices of the other.

"What is it he calls you?" Caitrin asked once she worked up the courage to speak. She saw Lord William assessing her with curious, dark eyes.

"Usually, he says 'Cariad' – beloved - but he called me 'witch' before. My name does not translate easily into Welsh, and William has difficulty saying it."

Lord William turned his head to watch Duana bandage his shoulder. He looked from his wife to Caithrin as he spoke. 

Duana translated. "William wants me to say you are welcome in Aber. He would like for you to stay as long as you wish, and he can send messengers to your sons before snow closes the passes in the valley. He has lost a daughter and can imagine the relief of finding a lost child. He wants you to be comfortable here and says you are very brave to leave Ireland alone on the word of a man you did not know..." 

She paused. Lord William looked at her expectantly. 

"He says you are very brave and a very good kisser, like your daughter, and that is a good combination," Duana said, blushing. 

*~*~*~* 

Duana returned from her midnight trip to the privy and announced, "I am not getting up again. There must be some limit to this." 

Gwilym rolled to the edge of the mattress. He held out his hands and cupped them into a bowl. 

"In a few more hours, after a dozen more trips, I may take you up on that offer." 

He raised his eyebrows but dropped his hands. 

As she prepared to maneuver herself back into their bed, Gwilym tugged at her chemise. "Take this off." 

Duana wrapped an arm around her belly. "William, really?" They had not made love since she fell, out of fear of more bleeding. 

"I want to see you. I have never seen you this big before. Take off your chemise and come to bed." 

"Those are the words to make a woman's heart soar. 'I have never seen you this big before,'" she said sarcastically, but pulled the yards of soft linen over her head before sliding under the covers. 

"Men never tire of hearing the phrase, though."

Duana sighed and resigned herself to another round of her husband's insomniac musings. She lay back on the pillows as Gwilym curled up beside her.

"Would it be foolish to tell you that you are beautiful?" he asked playfully.

Duana replied it would be, indeed. 

"I will not say it." He propped his head up on his hand. "Nor some silliness about this being the first child I am certain is mine and what that means to me. I will not voice the wonder I feel as I look at you and know I have done this. To mention how I need you to the point it is vulgar? Poetic nonsense about anchors and being incomplete and adrift until you came? No talk of that." 

Without comment, she put his hand high on her abdomen. He felt the baby shift. Duana treated his nocturnal chattering like a head cold. She made herself comfortable and tried to ignore it as much as possible until it ran its course. 

He ran his palm down the swell of her belly. He smiled, but she stiffened. "Are you all right?”

Her face grimaced.

He asked, “Is it a pain?" 

She exhaled. "A small one. They are not close together, but they are not stopping." 

“Make them stop.” 

She shook her head she could not do that.

"You said it would be another month," Gwilym insisted. Another month. He thought the date carved in stone by God beneath the Ten Commandments. Remember the Sabbath, honor your father, and this MayDay baby will be born in late January.

Christmas remained several days away.

Gwilym knew men who bragged their strapping adult sons, at birth, barely covered their father’s palm. Merfyn’s new babies thrived and doubled in size each time Gwilym saw them. Early babies lived. Sometimes.

Duana turned her head to look at him, and reached up to stroke his cheek comfortingly. "Babies come when God decides they are ready. This one is ready, I think. Do not worry." 

"How soon will the baby be born, do you think?" His heart beat faster. 

"Hours," Duana said casually, as though women had babies every day. "Afternoon, maybe. It is hard to predict." 

He swallowed. "Can I stay?" 

Duana nodded. Moving awkwardly, she scooted so she rested her head on his shoulder. "I would like for you to stay until I have to send for my mother. She can bring the baby as well as any doctor." 

“Cariad, the passes are treacherous. I am not sure I could get a doctor into Aber if-” He swallowed dryly. "Are you afraid?" In a more confident tone he said, "Because I am not afraid. Not that something could go wrong and I could lose you. Because there are so many things I have not said, and if I told you how much I cared for you, it would seem I do it under duress and you would not believe me."

"Perhaps I am afraid," she admitted. "But I should not be." 

"I will be, too. I cannot allow you to be afraid alone." 

*~*~*~* 

No one wanted supper but Gwen had the kitchen maids serve it and clean up afterward to have something to fill the hours. All day, people roamed into the kitchens, stood pensively, and wandered off again without eating. Laundry soaked in forgotten washtubs and brooms leaned in doorways, left there by distracted servants. Butter went unchurned, wool unspun, eggs uncollected, harnesses unmended. Gwen accidentally salted the soup at least twice. People wandered a great deal, said little, and accomplished nothing except waiting. Aber Castle held its breath.

"Any word?" Gwen asked Father Leuan. She gathered up her cloak and skirt, and grunted as she knelt beside Leuan in the chapel. 

He sighed. “Still all is well, and it will not be much longer,” Father Leuan answered. “They have not sent for me." He rolled his shoulders to ease the knotted tendons. He had prayed for hours until his mind numbed and the Latin words jumbled together.

"I have opened all the windows and doors in the castle. We may freeze, but it will help the womb open for the child to come."

"Does that truly help?"

She shrugged. "It cannot hurt. I sent a knife for Lady Duana's mother to put under the bed to cut the pain by half. Can you think of anything else?" 

"Persuade Gwilym to pace inside," Leuan suggested. "Or at least get him to put on a cloak besides that old gray one. He may listen to you."

"I will see what I can do."

At the end of the row, Pyn knelt with his hands clasped, eyes closed, and his lips moving fervently but silently. Gwen noted his mussed hair and askew clothing. Half an hour earlier, Pyn had been in the office, ostensibly reviewing the accounts or some such business. As Gwen heard the story, Caithrin had Lord Gwilym leave Lady Duana. Pyn – new to Aber Castle and Lord Gwilym’s temper - told Lord Gwilym not to worry; he, Pyn, would keep watch over her ladyship. Gwen heard the commotion upstairs, followed by footsteps fleeing down the stairs and through the great hall. A maid bringing towels and clean sheets to the bedchamber saw Gwilym grab Pyn by the shirtfront, shove Pyn against a wall, and strongly suggest the young man find another woman to supervise.

Gwen whispered the story to Leuan, who agreed Pyn should be thanking God Lord Gwilym spared his life.

Leuan bowed his head, closed his eyes, and resumed praying. Around them, dozens of candles flickered, lit and left by maids and grooms and squires and even Gwilym's knights, who ordinarily found it unmanly to acknowledge worrying over a woman in labor. A surprising number of souls were physically present as well, their heads bowed silently. In the village, the monks and peasants prayed. A great deal rested on the outcome of this night, and a great many of them had been among the Beltane bonfires themselves. 

"Keep Lady Duana safe," Gwen asked quietly, a moment later. "Blessed Virgin, watch over her son." Leuan opened his eyes and saw Gwen spoke to the painting of the Christ child above the alter. "Watch over all the sons and daughters who will be born in the next month. Be with their mothers."

Please be with their mothers, Leuan added silently. 

She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. 

"Is there anyone else you can speak with?" he asked her softly, obliquely. "I must remain here."

"I will see what I can do," she repeated. “Do you think his lordship would notice if I sacrificed a goat?”

“I do not think his lordship would notice if you drowned, hanged, and burned a dozen goats to the Old Gods in the great hall.” Gwen glanced sideways at him. Leuan added, “Do not do that, however.”

Before Father Leuan could say anything else, footsteps entered the chapel. At the familiar gait, Leuan and Gwen turned to look, as did everyone else kneeling in the chapel. Knights, stable boys, Pyn, and chambermaids craned to see Lord Gwilym’s face. The baby had not yet come. The Lord of Gwynedd continued to pace and snap like a frustrated panther.

"You are supposed to be praying," Gwilym informed everyone tersely. He stalked up the aisle of the chapel. He wore his ragged gray cloak, and his face remained unshaven. "You are not praying; you are gossiping! Napping. Flirting. Leuan, you are the priest of Aber! Pray!" 

"I am praying." Leuan folded his hands piously, and everyone wisely imitated his posture.

Rather than taking his place up front, Gwilym knelt on the other side of Leuan. 

Pyn silently moved to the back row, positioned himself on the far side of a large groom, and resumed praying.

"Do you know what the Druids say?" Gwilym asked Leuan, but did not wait for an answer. "On the last day of April, the ancient king becomes the lover of the goddess. On the twenty-second day of December, after the winter solstice, at dusk, as penance, the king awaits Death. It is dusk, Leuan. Duana said the baby would come by afternoon but it is dusk. The moon on the horizon is blood red. I-”

"You are neither a king nor a Druid, Llwynog," the priest reassured him, quiet enough other ears could not overhear. "This child is blessed. Breathed to life by the Old Ones. That is all the moon signifies." 

Gwilym remained silent a few seconds. “I had a dream. At least, I took it for a dream, but... I dreamed a Druid came to Duana, after she fell. She was so ill, and he offered ‘a life for a life.’ I agreed, Leuan. In my dream, I agreed, and he touched her and healed her. He healed the baby. A life for a life. If that truly happened-”

“Merely a dream, Llwynog,” Father Leuan assured him. 

Gwen offered, “Llwynog, there is soup-” 

“You were in the bedchamber,” Gwilym said, interrupting. “You saw something come to my wife, something we could not see. There was a spirit, or an angel, or something, but she was not alone. We all saw it.”

“Her ladyship is not alone, Llwynog,” Gwen reminded him softly. “I sensed the presence, and I saw the Druid priest come during the night. Old Magic guards that child. And her son.” 

“A life for a life,” Gwilym repeated hollowly.

“Not tonight,” Gwen assured him. “You do not repay that debt tonight.”

Gwilym looked up at the beautiful alter and down at his hands as if he felt powerless. 

“God is with you,” Leuan promised.

“I doubt that. Even if he is: the Christian God is with me, I have made a deal with the Devil, and Old Druid magic is with my wife and unborn child,” Gwilym summarized sarcastically. “That seems an unbridgeable expanse.”

Leuan said, “All things come together, in the end.”

Without ever murmuring a prayer, Gwilym stood. "You two hypocrites pray louder.” As he left the chapel, he added, “All of you pray in Welsh. Not Latin. No need for God to have to translate." 

*~*~*~* 

In Merfyn’s experience, as a woman labored, sometimes the best medicine was strong beer poured liberally to the expectant father. Not himself, of course. Merfyn much preferred the putting in rather than guiding out, but he had delivered one of his daughters who arrived before the midwife. Some women liked the father present to reassure them or so they had someone to curse. Firewood must be carried, towels gathered, and the midwife fetched. Water heated. Prayers said. Many things could occupy the hours until the baby came. Some men, however, were most useful sitting drunk in the closest tavern, awaiting word. 

Merfyn doubted God himself could move Gwilym from Aber Castle tonight, let alone the offer of a drink in the village. 

Gwilym paced the inner bailey, and Merfyn patrolled the high battlement, claiming he guarded the castle. Minutes dragged into an hour. Overhead, stars sparkled like diamonds in the clear winter night. The full moon remained an odd, mottled red.

Gwilym said the pains started at midnight. Merfyn counted on his stiff fingers. Twenty hours was not so long. Merfyn had heard of much longer labors – but those women had not lived. Merfyn watched Gwilym pace, and again thought of the beer.

Gwen wanted all the doors open so Merfyn, from his perch, saw people milling inside the great hall. Outside, torches and bonfires burned. Rather than going to bed, people loitered under the stable’s eves, in a group near the inner gate – everywhere except in Lord Gwilym’s path. Pyn perched anxiously atop the woodpile. Gwilym’s subjects huddled around little braziers and bonfires but Gwilym paced back and forth, back and forth. A few times since he left Duana, Merfyn saw Gwilym go to the chapel to pray, but resume pacing.

Merfyn’s aching hip reminded him his youth had passed. Earlier in the day, he rode down to the valley and surveyed the snow-filled passes. And the icy mountains and frozen streams. The forest and the coast. The security of Aber rested on Merfyn’s shoulders so he knew every footpath in and out. If Prince Llewelyn had a Norman doctor at Dolwyddelan castle for Princess Joanna – the rumor among the knights – Merfyn judged he could make it there and back to bring the doctor to Aber. The trip would take hours, though. He wondered if he should ask for leave to go rather than continue to await Gwilym’s order.

Merfyn weighed the options and glanced down at the bailey again. He spotted Father Leuan kneeling in the chapel with Gwen. Lady Duana’s mother had not sent for a priest. Time remained to bring a doctor. He looked to Gwilym. 

Instead of pacing, the Gwilym stood watching the night sky. Merfyn followed Gwilym’s upward gaze.

A shadow slowly consumed the moon’s red flesh. 

As word of the eclipse spread, people spilled out of the great hall and chapel and stable. Faces appeared in the open castle windows, all watching the eerie crimson moon disappear into darkness. According to the Druids, the last child during a lunar eclipse was Merlin. This was an oracle, the Druids would say. A great change or tragedy was coming. Or a great leader was born. 

His mantle was warm, so the cold had nothing to do with the bristling hair on Merfyn’s arms and neck. He crossed himself. In the bailey below, he saw Leuan and Gwen do the same.

The shadow crept across the moon until it became a blackish red surrounded by a glowing halo. Women brought out sleepy children and pointed at the sky to show them the moon.

In the commotion, Merfyn’s sharp eyes failed him. He did not see Gwilym leave the bailey. Merfyn scanned the crowd. No one noticed Gwilym’s absence, but Merfyn spotted a maid who lacked a cloak and seemed newly enthralled with the moon. If Lady Duana’s mother sent the maid for Gwilym, word – good or bad – would come soon. 

Father Leuan remained in the bailey. Merfyn took that as a good sign. He strained his ears, trying to hear a baby crying. He watched the shuttered window of Gwilym’s bedchamber. Gwilym never mentioned how he planned to announce the birth and had likely never given it a thought. The window seemed a likely bet, though.

The moon broke free of the red shadow, and a thin white crescent glowed in the sky.

The crowd noted Lord Gwilym’s absence. A stable boy, the marshal of the horses, and a few others joined Pyn on the woodpile, waiting in the cold, not daring to breathe. The maids clustered near the well and Merfyn’s knights all guarded the bonfire at the gate. 

As the silent minutes passed, Father Leuan inched closer to the doors of the great hall. 

A latch creaked, and Merfyn saw Caithrin open the shutters of the bedchamber window. She started to speak, but stopped and glanced behind her. The torches crackled and flickered. Finally, as if reassured, she leaned out the window and announced, "Bachgen," in faulty Welsh. 

Son.

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth V: Bachgen 

Hiraeth VI: Echen 

*~*~*~*

Sometimes a husband - as head of his family, lord of his castle, and slayer of dragons, Infidels, Normans, and hairy black spiders – must guide his wife. It was his duty, however banal or distasteful. A woman could not be expected to know right from wrong as a man did.

After nearly two years of practice with Duana, Gwilym had honed a technique. He guided her as one drove a team of stubborn oxen; one carefully observed which way the animals turned and called out that direction in a commanding voice. It made the driver feel better, fooled anyone watching, and the oxen did not seem to mind.

Gwilym made a disapproving noise in his throat. He put his hands on his hips and squared his shoulders as he watched Duana put the baby to her breast. Wrath awaited whichever servant brought the baby to Duana. Probably Pyn; that boy thought the sun rose and set exclusively for Duana. Which was untrue. The distant winter sun rose and set for Duana, Eimile, and Gwilym’s new son. 

"That is common." Gwilym scowled at her from the doorway of their dim bedchamber. Duana did not respond. Gwilym crossed his arms for emphasis.

"I am a commoner," she said casually. She pulled the coverlet up and around the baby's bare head. She wanted to suckle her child like a peasant woman, but she must be modest about it.

A thick bed of orange coals glowed in the hearth, as in the nursery, keeping the rooms as temperate as summer. Blankets covered all the closed shutters to prevent drafts. Caithrin – via Pyn - said the room must be warm and dark and quiet for this child who should have lingered longer inside his mother. So shoeless servants tiptoed and the woodpile suffered. As King Richard was known as ‘Lionheart,’ Lord Gwilym would be called ‘Snuffer of Candles, Destroyer of Forests.’

“His nurse feeds him her milk with a spoon,” Gwilym informed Duana.

With one hand, Duana gestured beside the bed to a tray from the kitchen. “I did not have a spoon.”

Gwilym sat down slowly on the mattress. Duana remained pale and he remained certain she would go to pieces if he jiggled her. 

“You should be resting,” he said. “You are not even supposed to sit up.” Gwilym folded back the furs and blankets to see the baby. Duana had the infant unswaddled. She stroked the sole of a tiny foot as she held him against her breast. “He should not be so bare.”

“My lord husband, should you not be out lording over Gwynedd rather than playing nursemaid?”

Rather than answer, Gwilym stipulated, “He is not nursing; he is asleep.”

“He is.” Duana watched the baby. “He is growing quickly.”

“He should not be unwrapped,” Gwilym insisted. “He will chill.”

“The room is warm. I think he is fine.”

The room was uncomfortably warm, but he reminded her, “I have four children to your two.”

“Three of which were born in your absence. If you birthed or nursed any of the four, I will write to the Pope of your miracle,” she responded sarcastically, which shut him up for a few seconds. Also, Gwilym had unwrapped the baby needlessly, multiple times – wondrously examining little toes and fingernails – without incident. Likely, his son would survive being bundled in only fur for a moment, at his mother’s breast.

“He is asleep. Give him to me.” Gwilym leaned toward her. “I will take him to the nursery.” 

He lied. Gwilym would get as far as the next room before he barred the door, sat on the sofa, laid the tiny baby across his knees, and stared at him. It was miraculous to see his and Duana’s features reflected at him.

Duana clutched the baby. "William, I would like to see my son. With you and Mother and Sir Melvin and Gwen and Father John and Prince Llewelyn all strutting around with him, I have been forgotten." 

"I do not strut," he insisted. "Although I am certain he is the smartest, strongest, bravest, most handsome week-old son in all of Wales."

Her mouth twitched. “Not the smartest, bravest, most handsome in the world?”

Gwilym looked at her as if perplexed. “If he is the smartest, bravest, and most handsome in Wales, it goes without saying he is the smartest, bravest, and most handsome son in all the world. Foolish woman,” he muttered under his breath as he got up.

He retrieved the cradle from the nursery and set it beside their bed. He avoided looking at Duana, but felt her watching him.

“If you promise you will not get up without help, he may sleep here tonight. I will stay with you, and I will take him to his nurse when he is hungry,” Gwilym said sternly.

"How kind of you." Duana's fear of displeasing her husband remained well-concealed. "To ensure you can fawn over my son all night even as you guard my feet do not meet the floor and my breast does not meet his mouth.”

Gwilym made what he hoped was a disinterested noise. 

“Mother brought the baby to me, William. She wants him fed by the wet-nurse most of the time until I am stronger, but it is good for babies to have milk from their mothers. Especially at first. It makes them healthier, and he is still so small. If you have the nurse feed him constantly, soon I will not have any milk."

“Why? Are you like a cow or goat that must be milked regularly?”

She said dryly, “How flattering.”

"It must hurt not to nurse. Animals make an awful racket if the milkmaids are late." He had not considered Duana might be uncomfortable, only frighteningly pale and weak.

“New babies eat often. He will be hungry again soon."

“You must rest.” He did concede, “I will consider the matter of who feeds this child.” 

“He is my son,” she protested.

“He is my son.” He emphasized ‘my.’ “You are my wife.”

He stood beside their bed looming over her until she relented and relinquished the baby. Duana tied the neck of her chemise closed and lay back on the pillows, looking tired and irritable.

“William, put the baby in the cradle, and fetch me a dagger and some strength.”

He smirked. “Am I so insufferable my throat is in danger?”

She adjusted the covers over her and closed her eyes. “I am plotting a more southerly attack.” 

Gwilym held the bundle of sleeping baby against his chest and looked down at Duana’s pretty face. “Save your strength to feed this child.” He sat down gently on the edge of their bed. “I will try to be more reasonable.”

She mumbled about barefooted servants in winter and believing his claim of reasonableness once she saw it.

“You are wrong,” he said neutrally. “As women often are.”

He took her hand, and she opened her blue eyes. The shape of the baby’s eyes was Gwilym’s but the color was Duana’s. The shape of the lips and the way she pursed them at him: exactly the same as their son. 

“Not about the likelihood of my continued insufferableness, but you are wrong, Cariad,” Gwilym continued casually. “My father was the last Lord of Gwynedd born in this castle. Everyone is celebrating my son, including me. There are bonfires and feasts and church bells, and your lord husband may indeed have made a drunken, strutting fool of himself in front of the Prince of Wales yesterday. But to think I have forgotten you? Foolish woman, you are as far from the truth as East is from West.”

She reached up and cupped her cool hand against his cheek. 

“Sleep. I will keep our son safe with me, and we will both see you for supper,” he promised.

She nodded and closed her eyes again.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym wrapped up the baby until his bundle was more blanket than infant. Normally, carrying the baby through the castle attracted admirers the way the butcher’s cart attracted stray dogs. So late at night though, no one among the patchwork of servants asleep on pallets in the great hall stirred. A snoring stable boy in an empty stall shifted as Gwilym entered the stable, but did not wake.

Goliath looked out from his stall. He pricked his ears forward and called a low greeting to his master. Gwilym held the lantern for the horse to see the tiny face amid the fur and wool. “This is my son,” Gwilym said quietly.

Goliath appraised the blue eyes and downy chestnut hair. He sniffed uncertainly.

“He will grow,” Gwilym assured the destrier, and Goliath tossed his head approvingly.

Gwilym laid the baby in an empty trough while he saddled Goliath. In order to mount while holding the baby, he led Goliath to the mounting block, then blew out the lantern. Once in the saddle, Gwilym adjusted his cloak to protect and conceal the baby. He tightened his heels and reins, and quietly guided Goliath out of the dark stable.

The big animal’s hooves clopped slowly across the frozen ground in the bailey, making Gwilym yearn for a way to hush a horse. Beneath his cloak, the baby – fed and dry and swaddled tightly – made no sound. The knight on guard opened the inner and outer gate as Gwilym approached. Gwilym rode out of Aber Castle as if headed for a late drink or some female company at the tavern.

Gwilym was no stranger to babies, but he had led armies into battle with less trepidation than he felt at leaving the castle with a child a fortnight old. The bundle cradled in his right arm felt too fragile and small to be so far away from its mother and nursemaid.

The winter brought frigid cold but little snow in the last weeks. Overhead, the waning gibbous moon shone clear and bright. He passed no one on the road to the valley and heard no sound except Goliath’s steady hoof beats and breaths. Near the village, he turned Goliath east, into the dark forest. The snowy footpath bore no prints except Goliath’s, and wound through the trees for miles. The horse exhaled white clouds of vapor, and Gwilym’s gloved hand holding the reins began to go numb from cold.

This is the height of folly, he chided himself. Taking the baby out in such cold. Though if Duana woke and discovered what Gwilym had done, Gwilym’s arrival in Hell (with her knife in his throat) should quickly thaw his fingers and toes.

Newborns got baptized within a day of birth and sometimes within hours, especially in winter because so many died. Even if Duana had been able to get out of bed, she could not enter the chapel while she remained unclean, so Gwilym had brought the baby to Leuan for the ceremony. Granted, by the evening after Duana gave birth, Gwilym had not slept in several days. He had also – once certain both Duana and the baby would live - been well-fortified with brandywine, but he knew what he heard. After Leuan performed the baptism, the priest returned the tiny baby to Gwilym’s arms and said quietly, “Bring him to Merlin’s Circle in a fortnight, at midnight.” 

Leuan continued the service in Latin. Gwilym remembered looking back at the congregation to see if anyone overheard. His people grinned at him stupidly. The celebratory wine had been distributed; a lightning bolt would have gone unnoticed in the chapel. Later, Father Leuan denied deviating from the service and was incensed by the accusation. 

This was folly. Unfortunately, Gwilym never in his life steered away from folly.

The local boys – including Gwilym, when he was counted as a boy – called the circle of small upright stones in the clearing “Merlin’s Circle,” and the stone chamber at the far edge “Arthur’s Tomb.” A slab of weathered limestone capped two massive upright stones, creating a shelter large enough for a man to stand or lie in. The back of the tomb butted against a stone hillside. The circle and tomb were ancient when Gwilym’s grandfather was a boy, and likely been the grave of some long-forgotten king. Such circles and cairns and tombs dotted Wales and southern England, fueling fanciful boys’ imaginations.

As a man, Gwilym learned Arthur was buried elsewhere, and had told Duana as much the one time he brought her to this place.

In the moonlight he saw snow blanketing the tops of the standing stones and the tomb. Gwilym saw no torches or lanterns, or figures or footprints in the circle. Or figures among the tall oak trees around the circle or on the hillside above it. The baby mewed and Goliath fidgeted, but the frozen forest remained empty and silent.

Frustrated and feeling foolish, Gwilym called, “Is anyone here?” His voice echoed off the mountains and answered him.

From the darkness in front of him, Father Leuan’s voice answered. “Step into the circle.”

Goliath snorted and backed several steps. With his skin prickling and heart pounding, Gwilym held the reins tight and called shakily, “Leuan?” across the empty clearing.

The same voice urged, “Step into the circle, Llwynog.”

Gwilym swallowed dryly. He urged Goliath forward a step, but stopped and scanned the shadows. He saw the same nothing as before.

“I must speak to you of something.” Leuan’s voice continued as if they sat fishing on a riverbank. “Give me your blessing to leave you. That duty I spoke of? Others have more need of me than you do.”

“Where do you want leave to go?” Gwilym asked thin air stupidly. “Where are you?”

“Never so far away I cannot come, if you have need of me.”

“All right,” Gwilym told the night air uncertainly. “Leuan, you have lost standing to ever again lecture me about baiting dragons.” Either Gwilym was insane or this was Old Magic far beyond bonfires and drugged wine. 

“Step into the circle,” Leuan said a third time.

Gwilym exhaled and – mindful of the nervous horse and the baby - slid down from the saddle. He stepped into the stone circle.

Father Leuan stood exactly where Gwilym would have predicted based on his voice. Leuan wore his usual drab brown robe, with his hood pushed back and his hands tucked into the opening of the opposite sleeve. The priest looked like he had for as long as Gwilym recalled. Grayer, with a few more lines on his face. Gwilym saw him clearly in the light from inside the old stone tomb. No snow covered the ground inside the stones. The air felt warm. The light shone not from inside the little tomb, but from behind it where the hillside should be. The light did not flicker; it glowed as if from a distant source.

Gwilym heard Leuan say, “Bring your horse,” but the suggestion did not reach his brain clearly enough to act upon.

Gwilym stared at the light. As a boy, he climbed atop, jumped off, dug beside, camped in, and tried to squeeze behind that tomb. He could not possibly be seeing through the back of it and into a cave in the stone hillside. 

“Dinas Affaraon,” Gwilym said, realizing what he saw. The legendary city of the Druids built by Merlin atop a dragon’s lair. This must be its entrance. He would tell Duana.

The tug at the reins in his hand alerted Gwilym Goliath wanted no part of this.

“Bring your horse,” Leuan said, sounding annoyed at Gwilym’s delay.

Gwilym gave the baby to Leuan in order to deal with Goliath. After some soothing and persuasion, the big horse let Gwilym lead him into the circle.

“Remain inside the stones. You will be safe here,” Leuan assured him.

Normally Gwilym would reply he was the Lord of Gwynedd and general of the Welsh Army and more than able to protect himself. Now, he felt grateful of the reassurance. “Leuan, is this Dinas Affaraon?” he managed to ask. “Why are we here? How do you know about this place? Is this another dream?”

An unseen bell sounded. Gwilym saw a familiar hooded Druid priest emerge from the lit tomb.

“This is important,” Leuan replied. “I had hoped my father could do this, but he cannot travel anymore.”

“Leuan, I thought it rude to mention it, but if your mother was the old Druid midwife, I suspect the old abbot on the Isle of Man is your father.”

“And he cannot travel. He watches, though.”

As Gwilym tried to formulate a response, Leuan stepped forward and gave the baby to the Druid. A man unwrapped the blanket and fur, and untied and unwrapped the swaddling so the infant was naked. The Druid lifted the tiny baby high, showing him to crowds Gwilym did not see.

Coming to his senses, Gwilym stepped forward to take back his son. 

Leuan put a hand on Gwilym’s shoulder, and the Druid priest promised kindly, inside Gwilym’s head, “No harm will come to him.”

Gwilym remembered the same voice marrying him to Duana among the Beltane fires. The same man coming to their bedchamber in Gwilym’s dream, after Duana fell from her horse and would not wake.

“This child is the future,” the Druid said, though the man’s lips never moved.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym heard the fire pop sharply. It hissed, cracked, and popped again as a log fell into coals. He opened his eyes. He lay on the sofa in his office holding the baby against his chest. 

He had no memory of returning to the castle. He had no memory of leaving the circle, even.

He sat up and looked around the dim room. The baby’s cradle stood nearby. The bedchamber door was closed. The fire in the hearth looked a few hours old, and the candle on Gwilym’s desk indicated four in the morning. He was fully dressed. In the night Gwilym must have picked up the baby to comfort him, and moved the cradle from the bedchamber so Duana would not wake. He must have gotten his son back to sleep and fallen asleep himself.

He rubbed his eyes and took a breath to clear his head. A dog near the hearth raised its head and wagged its tail against the slate floor.

Gwilym’s cloak hung over the chair at his desk, with his gloves and dagger beside the ledger. An empty pitcher and two goblets suggested wine and company earlier, though Gwilym had no memory of that, either. The boots on his feet felt dry. He saw no evidence of tracked-in snow. The baby remained swaddled and content.

He checked the bedchamber. Duana slept soundly. Her mother said wine and beer thinned the blood, and Duana was not to drink either after losing so much blood after the birth. The second goblet could not be hers.

Returning to his dim office, Gwilym laid the baby in the cradle. He stood in front of his desk with his hands on his hips. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Certainly, he had dreamt it. 

He had dreamt many things, though none pleasant. Gwilym had nightmares of Dafydd’s death, of Diana dying, and of searching through the night for his daughter. As of late, he dreamed of that Norman doctor hurting Duana while Gwilym tried frantically to reach her. To dream of entering a magical stone circle with Leuan and having a Druid priest bless his son – he should view this as a welcome change.

Gwilym looked at the empty wine pitcher suspiciously. 

He had a son conceived the last time he drank too much wine and ‘dreamt’ a Druid ceremony, and entered some bargain with the Old Gods in another ‘dream.’ 

Gwilym left the office door ajar so the nurse would hear if the baby woke. He threw his cloak around his shoulders, took a candle, and made his way downstairs and through the sleeping castle.

Leuan had quarters with the monks in Aber but also a private room above the kitchen in Aber Castle. When Father Leuan served as Gwilym’s tutor, having the priest live in the castle seemed wiser than turning a mischievous young Gwilym loose to a monastery.

The door to Luean’s dark chamber sat ajar and the room empty. Father Leuan could be in the chapel, or with the monks in Aber, or out performing a baptism or Last Rites. Or dancing naked inside a Druid circle, for all Gwilym knew. This night had an odd feel to it.

No borrowed books or neatly stacked papers sat on the little desk. Gwilym found no drab brown robes folded in the chest. The room was empty not of Leuan’s presence, but of Leuan’s life. The bed was made and the chair neatly pushed up against the desk, but Leuan was gone.

Gwilym held his candle high and looked around the modest room as if he might be mistaken. 

Leuan was not a serf; he needed the Bishop’s permission, not Gwilym’s, to travel. In the dream, he had asked Gwilym’s blessing, though.

This was ridiculous. Gwilym had encountered bowls of second-day porridge containing more magic than Father Leuan. The priest was away on some unexpected pilgrimage and Gwilym spent the night asleep on the sofa in his office. 

To confirm his suspicions, Gwilym went to the inner gate of Aber Castle. A young knight warmed his hands over coals in a little brazier but snapped to attention as Gwilym approached. 

“Did I ride out this night?” Gwilym demanded. He held the candle up to see the knight’s face. The boy must have recently passed from squire to knight; he looked no more than nineteen. 

The last knight so young Gwilym had in his service made a habit of wagging his tongue about Duana and Llewelyn and treason. Last winter, Mawr and Mawr Hyll sent that knight home but required he leave the tip of his idle tongue in Aber as penance. One of the brothers had tacked the bit of tongue over their front door until their mother made him take it down.

“Tonight,” Gwilym asked this boy supposedly guarding Aber castle and Gwilym’s family sleeping inside it, “did you open the gate for me?”

The skinny young knight’s rigid posture did not change but his eyes moved from side to side as if scanning the shadows for the correct answer. He squeaked, “As you say, my lord.”

“As I say? I am asking you. Did you open this gate for me last night or not? Did you see me ride out?”

“My lord, I am certain his lordship knows if his lordship rode out. Or not. My lord,” the knight added anxiously.

“Were you at this gate all night?” he asked slowly, evenly.

The knight nodded vigorously.

“And did you open this gate for me to ride out?”

Gwilym sensed the young man yearned to have the metal portcullis between them. “My lord, I do not concern myself with his lordship’s nightly comings and goings. My lord.”

“That seems exactly what a guard should concern himself with,” Gwilym responded. “Did you see me return?”

There was a long pause before the knight spoke. “Clearly, you have returned, my lord. I am not sure what his lordship is asking, my lord.”

Gwilym exhaled in exasperation. He may as well go ask Goliath.

With as many answers as he left with, Gwilym returned to the office. Unsure what else to do, he sat at his desk mulling things over. He watched the coals glow in the fireplace. And looked at that second metal goblet. 

Others had more need of Leuan than Gwilym did, Leuan had said. 

Gwilym thought a moment, fitting the pieces together in his mind.

He opened the ledger and by candlelight, read the entries. Either Duana or Leuan dutifully recorded each serf’s marriage and travel request, each feast and market, guest and decree. A separate ledger held financial accounts, and the Church recorded baptisms and burials. In this ledger though, over and over, the Latin notations began with ‘His Lordship grants permission...’ Except for the final lines.

The last entry was dated for the January day about to dawn and written in ink fresh enough to smear with a damp thumb. In Leuan’s familiar, neat hand was recorded, ‘His Lordship gives his blessing as Father John of Aber takes his leave.’ Leuan gave no destination or date of return, but had added, ‘Is est amicus qui in re dubia re juvat, ubi re est opus,’ like a final test of Gwilym’s Latin. As well as Gwilym could translate, the line read, ‘He is a true friend who, when necessary, does what is necessary.’

*~*~*~*

Anyone who thought women the worst gossips should camp with an army of knights, foot soldiers, archers, servants, and squires during a six-month siege. Rumors spread faster through the Welsh army than the French Pox, and Mawr and Mawr Hyll could have decorated his mother’s entire house with wagging tongues if they wanted. Rather than setting a good example, Gwilym thought Merfyn the worst. The old sergeant prided himself on knowing and telling everyone’s business. The business he did not know, he divined or invented.

Gwilym and Merfyn agreed before leaving the castle that theirs was a secret mission. That did not mean Gwilym planned to tell Merfyn all his secrets. He rode ahead of his sergeant, keeping his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. That left Merfyn to converse with the back of Gwilym’s head. Unfortunately, Merfyn remained as skillful at inquest as he was with a blade.

"You have waited the entire forty days?" Merfyn asked, though Gwilym had admitted no such thing. He heard Merfyn’s horse trot faster through the snow, closing the gap between them. "I thought that was a sin Leuan made up to torment us and no one did it. So you waited seventy days after Eimile was born? Seventy days? How many months is that? More than two."

"Seventy days is more than two months," Gwilym answered noncommittally. 

Several seconds of silence followed. Gwilym glanced back. Merfyn had his head cocked to the side and his brow furrowed. 

“I would die," Merfyn announced. "I would rather confess, do penance, and pay for indulgences. I understand a few weeks after a son - or any child - but two months? And a man is supposed to wait seventy days to lay with a woman after a daughter is born? I have so many daughters; if I waited two months after each one, I would be waiting..." He struggled with the math, gave up and said, "...a long time."

"If you would wait, you might not need names for so many daughters,” Gwilym said. “How many is it? Eight?"

"All together? Nine; three boys and nine girls," Merfyn said proudly. "How long is it all together I should have abstained?"

"Almost two years," Gwilym answered. "But you have the twins and the new triplets. I think the Church would count days after each birth, not by each child. I assumed a woman is never unclean for more than seventy days, regardless if she has one baby or a litter, as your new wife seems to."

Merfyn’s horse appeared alongside Goliath. "How many days? I can do it all at once the next time we go to war and get some of my indulgence money back. I think I could manage if I got to kill someone every so often because, I swear, I have paid for the chapel's new altar myself. Those priests know more ways to make something a sin-" 

Merfyn reined his gelding sharply and ducked to avoid a snow-covered branch. 

"Five hundred and seventy days." Gwilym had time to calculate since Goliath possessed sense enough to walk around a tree rather than into it. "Nineteen months. More than a year and a half," he added for Merfyn's benefit. 

Like most men - even knights - Merfyn judged time by the height of the sun, the phase of the moon, and the season of the year. He recognized his name, read scales enough to know how much he was being paid, and - not having owned more than a hundred of anything in his life - never needed to count any higher. 

The old man whistled under his breath, so Gwilym assumed the Church could rely on Merfyn continuing to buy indulgences and warm the confessional for years to come.

"Who is your mistress if you are so moral all of a sudden?" Merfyn asked. "Do you even have one? I have not seen you with Muretta since she married. I do not know who it could be since the Lady Dana came. No woman in the castle, I am certain, or I would know it. As of late, I have heard of no village girls, no prostitutes, no camp followers-"

"It is lovely to hear you chronicle my life. You are not the only one with a good memory. Would you like to hear my account of your misdeeds?" Gwilym tightened his heels against Goliath’s sides and rode ahead.

"Dear God in Heaven!" Merfyn exclaimed. "You are faithful to your wife."

Gwilym ignored him and turned off the road, onto the snowy path to the alchemist's hut.

"That is it! There is not only no mistress, there are no other women at all. That is why you are worried the Lady Dana might become pregnant again so soon. The forty days have almost passed and you have not been with anyone else."

Gwilym looked back at Merfyn warningly but knew it would do no good. Merfyn had gotten his teeth into a new bit of gossip and barely began to chew. 

"Interesting. Well, you are not the only man in love,” the sergeant said, seeming to change tactics. “I believe someone we know has newborn twin daughters."

"Who?" Gwilym asked. “Llewelyn?” Joanna was rumored to be with child but Gwilym heard that rumor from Merfyn. Certainly, Llewelyn would have said something in December if Joanna expected one child, let alone twins. 

“A woman in Aber.”

One in ten women in Aber gave birth this winter but Gwilym knew of no twins or triplets except Merfyn's. "Someone in the village?"

"A man from the castle and a woman from the village."

That information did not narrow the choices. He calculated which of his knights had bedded a woman in the village last spring. The answer was 'most.'

"My squire and the cooper's youngest daughter." 

"A mother from the village, a father from the castle, and neither are present, at present," Merfyn elaborated.

"A nobleman or a commoner?"

Merfyn nodded thoughtfully. "I would say he is quite noble."

"Merfyn, I do not know." Gwilym was being baited; his sergeant would not let him off the hook so easily about Duana. Gwilym could lay with any woman he wanted; there happened to be one woman he found himself wanting and, by happy chance, she was his wife. "Tell me."

"I will tell you if you say it: I, Llwynog ap Gwilym, General of the Welsh Army, Lord of all of Gwynedd, have not been with a woman in almost forty days."

"You are childish and have no room to boast. You are not exactly keeping the prostitutes staring at the ceiling these days, either. Tell me who has the new twins."

"Not until you admit you are faithful to a woman. Pick me up after I faint, fan me, and when I wake, I will tell you."

Gwilym frowned and shook his head. Aber was not large; he would know about the twins soon enough. 

"No one?" Merfyn tried again. "We were in the south of Wales all those months when you first married... While she is with child? According to Father Leuan, that is a sin as well. She has been pregnant most of the time you have been married to her-"

"Which is why we are here," Gwilym snapped. "I am not the only one who wanted to come, so either close your mouth or go home and pray your Elan lives through another set of triplets."

Merfyn's eyes narrowed but he kept quiet as they rode the rest of the way through the cold woods to Llangly's hovel.

*~*~*~*

The alchemist had several experiments going, all incomprehensible, and none ever completed or cleared away. A dirty cup sat on a metal mirror while jasper stones rested on a map of the stars, along with a hawk’s skeleton, a hunk of dull gray ore, and a little bowl of salt. With the same energetic enthusiasm as a peddler on market day, Llangly set out his wares on the wobbly table.

Gwilym looked suspiciously at the mixture of cedar gum, oil, rue, lead, and pepper. “She would do what with this?" 

"Inside." Merfyn reminded him, but sounded equally skeptical. The sergeant leaned forward to examine the crock’s contents. 

The alchemist added a pinch more rue and stirred again.

"I think not." Gwilym wrinkled his nose. "If my wife knows, it is her sin as well. This-" He stuck two fingertips into the concoction. Regretting it, he tried to quickly flick the sticky mess off while maintaining some dignity. "This, I think, she would notice."

"There are other choices," Llangly assured them. "Many things are said to prevent a child from forming." 

"I have heard of brake-root," Merfyn said. "One of my wives drank a powder of brake-root in wine.

Llangly’s amiable demeanor changed. "How many children did you say you had?" he asked haughtily. "Perhaps your science is questionable?"

"How many times have you been married that you think any of this-" Merfyn gestured to the alchemist's contraceptive offerings so far. "-is a valid option. Let me count. Never, I think it was. Can you imagine what my wife would say if I told her to put this-"

"Better your wife than you. I would have to sketch a map for you to figure out where it goes," Llangly retorted. "Tell me: do your children resemble any other man you know?"

"All right!" Gwilym intervened. His previous dealings with the hermit-like alchemist were productive – if expensive – but he began to question the utility of this errand. Gwilym had a purpose, and it was not watching Merfyn and Llangly preen and squabble. "Enough. You said there are other choices - choices that do not involve dung. What are they?"

"Weasel testicles." Llangly nodded enthusiastically. 

Gwilym looked to Merfyn to see if he heard correctly. His sergeant's expression indicated he had.

"The Normans say to have a woman wear them." Llangly held up a sizable jar and assured them he collected them himself. "Weasel testicles worn as a necklace are said to be a sure guarantee against pregnancy." 

"For female weasels," Gwilym said. "I will put a jasper stone under the pillow like you suggest, but is there nothing else? Nothing more scientific?"

The alchemist’s zeal faded, and he looked uncomfortable. "My Lord, women have children for a reason: because it is God's will. Preventing that is as unnatural as a woman speaking in Church or a court of law."

Gwilym remained quiet for a moment. He looked at the cobwebbed crocks lining the high shelves and at the parchments that recorded the alchemist's experiments. "You know, of course, my wife had a son before Christmas?"

Llangly nodded.

"There was bleeding," Gwilym said. "Her mother got it to stop, but I was there. Duana sent for me as soon as the baby came; he was not even bathed. The cord was still-” With his hand, he made a scissoring gesture. “I have seen men cut in two in battle. Hung, burned, beheaded, gutted. But watching my wife start to bleed was worse. One minute I was thanking God both Duana and the baby were alive, and the next minute there was so much blood. And nothing I could do. So much blood-" he repeated hoarsely. After a breath, he said tightly, "We have a healthy son, and a beautiful daughter as well. We do not need a baby every year. Do not tell me it is God's will Duana die young because, b-because of me."

Merfyn shifted awkwardly. He stared at the thatched roof, the dirt floor, and at the roof again. 

"These are folk remedies." Llangly responded in a sympathetic voice. "I would not put faith in them if so much is at stake. Perhaps they work; perhaps they do not. Do you know what coitus interruptus is?" he asked hesitantly.

Gwilym nodded; Merfyn did not. "The sin of Onan," Gwilym said.

Llangly nodded. "If there is no seed for a child to grow from, there is no child."

"God struck Onan down." Though Gwilym feared Duana's wrath more than God's. 

"Ask your wife. She is good with herbs. I know metals and science, but the villagers say she is a skilled healer. If there is a way, she will know it."

Gwilym shook his head. "She will not say." 

"She might tell another woman," Merfyn piped up. "She is bound to be sympathetic to Elan. Twins and triplets within two years is not reasonable.”

Gwilym gave his sergeant a mocking look. “Oh, is it not?”

“It is not,” Merfyn said defensively. “I have teenage grandsons, Llwynog. I have a hip that aches and a sword that grows heavier each year. My time as a fine masculine specimen is passing. I enjoy my family, but I would also like to enjoy my afternoon naps without fathering another dozen babies at fifty. Forty,” he amended. “Five and forty.

“You have not seen five and forty in a decade,” Gwilym said. “And from a distance.”

Merfyn scowled at him. “I will have Elan ask your wife and tell me. Llangly can give you the herbs she recommends. It will be up to you, Llwynog, to get your wife to take them."

"She will not tell Elan," Gwilym replied. Merfyn's fertile young wife might adore Merfyn and her babies, but she had as much sense as a rabbit. "Another woman wanted herbs to end her pregnancy, but Duana would not tell her. Elan is not going to convince my wife if this woman did not."

The woman was Muretta, last week. Her husband sent her to the castle and told her not to come home pregnant with that foreigner's child. Muretta never conceived during her years in the tavern, or by Gwilym, and had desperately wanted a child once she married. How her husband determined this child’s paternity eluded Gwilym; he suspected the tanner was just an ass. Gwilym overheard, via his ear pressed to the office door, Muretta’s pleas to Duana. Gwilym knew of mandrake tea, though the woman he knew who drank it had ended her life as well as her pregnancy. Still, if Duana would not help, Gwilym could ensure Muretta was cared for and her child pledged to St. Mary’s or a nunnery. His intervention proved unnecessary. The next day Duana acquired a new, quite pretty, completely inept lady's maid. In a few months, Gwilym expected to acquire a foster child.

"If you have a better plan, share it, Gwilym," Merfyn replied irritably. "You are not the only man fond of his new wife."

This time, Gwiym had no energy for mocking or sarcasm. He paid Llangly and walked outside, feeling defeated.

Beside the hut, Goliath stood awkwardly, favoring one foot. Gwilym had thought the big destrier’s gait seemed off earlier. He picked up Goliath’s foot and checked the shoe. Despite the snow on the ground, the hoof felt hot. Gwilym sighed, as did Goliath. The day had not started well.

“The blonde Norse widow,” Merfyn said neutrally. “She has twin girls.”

Gwilym dropped Goliath’s foot and looked up. “The candle-maker’s niece?”

Merfyn tucked a package into one of his saddlebags; the old sergeant had chosen the sticky rue mixture.

“When?” Gwilym prompted. 

“After the New Year.” Leather creaked as Merfyn swung into his saddle. “I do not know the exact day, but I know her aunt in Aber received word of the birth about the time Father Leuan left on Crusade.”

Gwilym looked up at Merfyn.

“I noticed our priest buying many candles last spring.” The sergeant's mood brightened as he warmed to his tale. “There were rumors of the Norse woman’s pregnancy since late summer, before she returned to the Isle of Man. I do not think even the candle-maker knows who fathered the girls, but I suspect...” He paused dramatically. The sergeant delighted in secrets the way a glutton delighted in sweets. “I suspect Father Leuan is not on Crusade, but on the Isle of Man.”

Gwilym did not speak but his mind raced. According the reply the Bishop sent Gwilym, Leuan had not asked to go on Crusade. The Bishop thought Leuan was in Aber. When Leuan vanished though, the villagers assumed. Knights, peasants, women and children – even kings – were stricken with fever to reclaim the Holy Land, so if a Templar priest left home suddenly, a Crusade was a safe assumption.

Leuan’s horse – technically Gwilym’s property - remained in the stable at Aber Castle. Wherever the priest went, he went by foot with what he could carry on his back. Or boat, to the mysterious Isle of Man.

Leuan and the blonde Norse woman had twin girls. Gwilym turned the idea over in his head, letting it germinate and take hold. The Manx-speaking Norsewoman was not the first female to turn Leuan’s head. Gwilym recalled Leuan’s head turning frequently as a younger man, but those affairs ended. A priest could never marry in the Church. Leuan would have parted ways from the candle-maker’s niece, had she not been with child. With children. Gwilym struggled to envision Leuan as a father, yet he could not imagine a better one.

If Leuan walked to St. Mary’s and sailed to the Isle of Man, he could reach the largely pagan island within a few days. He could never return to Aber. Not with the Norse woman and the twin girls, and not to the Church.

“That is great conjecture from a man buying candles,” Gwilym told Merfyn evenly. “Damning and dangerous conjecture. If what you speculate is true, Father Leuan has taken a hearth wife and left the Church. If that is true, and he is ever found, the Church will charge him as a heretic. He could burn or hang. And, if part of your speculation is true but he does not acknowledge the Norse woman’s children, they are his bastards. Priests have bastard children. Priests who are not our friend Leuan. Abandoning a pregnant woman, even if she knew he was a priest and expected nothing from him, is not in his character. In fact, I suspect our friend Leuan would go after a woman who told him she had not need of him, if he suspected otherwise.”

Merfyn shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. 

Gwilym realized if it were Duana - far away, alone, in winter, and with child - if he had one chance at a life with her, he would have made the same decision regardless of the cost. If Duana had need of him, ever, he would be there. 

That thought lingered like something he once knew, but long forgot. Gwilym blinked and the odd sensation passed, leaving the winter chill behind.

“I will have Pyn prepare a wagon of food and blankets,” Gwilym said. “Tools, pots, furniture. Anything necessary to start a home. A purse of money. Strong horses to draw the wagon. Plow horses. You will guard the wagon and accompany it to the Isle of Man. See it finds a noble cause.” 

“I assumed the furniture includes two cradles?” Merfyn grinned slyly.

“As you see fit. The Bishop assures me Father Leuan is on Crusade,” Gwilym lied. He untied the reins and, leading Goliath rather than riding, began the long, cold walk back to Aber. “Leuan may be gone for years. In fact, he may never return. So close your mouth. Your farfetched gossip is poor bait to make me admit I want only my wife.” 

Merfyn's grin broadened. "Do not worry, Llwynog. I will not tell anyone."

*~*~*~* 

Llewelyn awaited Gwilym at Aber Castle. The Prince sat alone in Gwilym’s office, drinking good wine and wearing an expression he reserved for Gwilym and stomach complaints. 

After reading the summons twice, Gwilym tossed the document across his desk. It slid across the wood, over the edge, and to the floor where it lay with the new King’s seal looking up at him smugly. Gwilym’s chair clattered backward. He paced and swore until he exhausted his vocabulary of Welsh and French curses. He cursed the King’s law, the absent boy-King, Llewelyn’s alleged cowardice, the weather, the blacksmith, the blacksmith’s apprentice, and whoever devised horseshoes and Normans.

On the sofa, Prince Llewelyn folded his arms and waited, looking annoyingly resolved. 

Gwilym put off swearing fealty to the new boy-King to stay with Duana, but also out of apathy. He sent one response using the approaching winter as an excuse (that had been September), and ignored the summonses that followed. Gwilym reasoned if he delayed the trip to London long enough, the scheming, power-hungry Norman nobles would replace one royal brat with another. Come summer, Gwilym could make a leisurely trip to England and swear fealty to whichever new fool sat on the throne.

This summons came to Llewelyn. The King – or whoever spoke for the young King - ordered the Prince to bring Gwilym to London. With Duana. Immediately.

The King could do little to Gwilym in winter except send stern messages, but Llewelyn’s oldest baseborn son remained jailed in London. Defying the King meant treason, and treason meant death. Llewelyn would deliver Gwilym and Duana to London if it took the entire Welsh army shoveling the passes. 

Duana was in the nursery with Gwilym’s five-week-old son. The snow in the mountain passes was waist-deep and the frigid February cold seeped through the stone castle walls.

"How could you not tell me?" Gwilym demanded as he paced. "Duana said her husband called her 'Countess.' I thought she was joking. Or at least, I thought she meant some minor count. Why not tell me who my wife is?"

"Who your wife was," the Prince of Wales corrected. He seemed puzzled by Gwilym's focus on such a minor detail. "Why? Would you have refused her?"

Gwilym whirled around, his temper and pride getting the best of him. "As if I had a choice! You sent Father Leuan back to Aber with a message: I was married by proxy. Not 'was to be married.' 'Married.' Over, done, sight unseen, without once asking what I wanted. By order of Prince Llewelyn, I had a new wife and you were momentarily in King John's good graces again."

Llewelyn leaned against the sofa cushions, nonplussed. The Prince of Wales was never troubled by a lack of self-confidence. "A bright, lovely, adoring new wife who has given you a son. Her old titles are your greatest concern with this summons?"

Gwilym pointed at the summons on the floor and listed, "The Countess of Pembroke and Striguil, and Lady of Leicester. That is land in Ireland, England, south Wales and Normandy. Probably half of the Crown's taxes. The Count of Pembroke is Walter Marshal. Queen Eleanor's man. Duana was..." He stopped pacing. "She was Pembroke's third wife. The pretty young one you talked about a few years back. When did Walter Marshal die?"

Llewelyn emptied his goblet. He fiddled with the hilt of his dagger, looking unconvincingly bored.

"Why would she not tell me? Why would you not? Does no one tell me anything? My father spoke of the Count of Pembroke, even rode with him on Crusade, I think. Father said Walter Marshal of Pembroke was the greatest knight he ever knew: brave and wise and noble and-"

"And dead," Llewelyn said. "The last, I think, is most important."

Gwilym exhaled noisily.

“What of the rest of the summons?” Llewelyn prompted. “The part about bringing your wife to London?”

“I am getting to that. Why would the brat-King summon Duana? I do not like this." 

"Nor do I. What could be the reason for it? What would you be thinking Gwil, if you were the Norman King?"

Gwilym sat on the edge of his desk, concentrating. The fire crackled for several minutes. "It is not an invitation, but a summons. One addressed to you, not me or Duana. That means the sender thinks I would ignore it, and either keep Duana from reading it or prohibit her from heeding it. The sender regards me with disdain, but also as lawless and cruel. You, he thinks, are more civilized and reasonable." He paused. "He does not summon Eimile; either he does not know of her, or he sees no use in her as hostage or marriageable pawn.”

“Without King John alive to claim Eimile is his bastard, and with you acknowledging her as your daughter, the girl has no value to the new King.”

“I agree.” Gwilym's heart beat faster. “If I advised the King, I would know Duana is also not politically valuable on her own. Her value to the Crown would be in controlling you or me, or in her widow's rights to my lands or Pembroke's - or both. With those lands though, she would be quite useful to offer to a new husband. Have you been to London to know the new players?"

Llewelyn shook his head. "I sent messengers pledging fealty but I am overdue, as well." He added as if in afterthought, "Joanna has been ill."

“Ill for all these many months?” 

Llewelyn must have been waiting at Aber Castle and drinking wine for much of the morning. He edged toward tipsy an hour before midday. “Only the last few. Until then, all seemed well. One morning, I woke and Joanna was-” The Prince gestured as if blood gushed from his groin. “There was nothing the midwife or physician could do.”

“Oh.” The rumors had been true, and Llewelyn must not be announcing Joanna’s pregnancies at the first sign anymore. Gwilym regretted not bridling his enthusiasm about his own son, but Llewelyn never said a word except in congratulations. "She is well now?"

"Joanna is out of danger, the physicians say." Llewelyn checked the wine pitcher and found it empty. He toyed with the dagger on his belt again and said absently, "It was another boy." He worried his mouth. "None of your scenarios end well for you, Gwil."

"They do not. I can think of many reasons why the boy-King or one of his advisers might summon Duana, and there are many factors I cannot know. If it is a trap, I would rather face it knowingly."

"Eimile and your son will stay at Dolwyddelan Castle. They should not remain in Aber unguarded. Send their nursemaids and Duana's mother; Joanna will watch over them."

Gwilym did not say it, but Aber Castle was far more secure than the one in Dolwyddelan. Even if it was not, he trusted Merfyn and Gwen to watch over his children more than he trusted Llewelyn's vast staff. Llewelyn wanted Joanna to have a baby to hold, though Gwilym saw no harm in it for a month. 

"I may have to tie Duana to the horse, but I can be ready to ride tomorrow, if the weather holds. Pyn and Gwen can manage the castle well enough, but there is a woman, Duana's maid, who is with child. I will send her with the children. If the maid's baby comes before we return, I have paid for Saint Mary's Abbey to take it. I thought Duana might want to keep it but she is adamant she does not. The abbot knows Duana and promised to keep the child until it is old enough to be pledged to the Templars or one of the nunneries."

Llewelyn looked vaguely disapproving. “You are bedding her maid, Gwil?”

"Of course not. The woman is Muretta, Llewel. See she is cared for," Gwilym requested. Tilting his head, asked, "The Count’s son Alex - does he still live?"

"The Count of Pembroke did not have a son named Alex. Not by any of his wives anyway, and I know of no bastards. There is a son and a stepson, but neither is named ‘Alex.’ Why?"

"No reason." Gwilym toyed with the hilt of his own dagger. "As I said, I like to know the trap being laid for me."

*~*~*~*

Sleep refused to come, so Duana tried to comfort herself with verses from the Bible. Wives obey their husbands, woman is the weaker vessel, a husband had domain over her body, and a woman must remain silent. A good wife submits to her husband gladly in all things.

She had not remained silent, and she did not submit gladly, and the verses did not make Duana hate her husband any less. 

That afternoon, as she watched open-mouthed, William had maids pack her clothing and ready her things to travel. William left for London at dawn, and unless Duana decided to run away during the night, she got on a horse and left with him. 

William had a traveling cloak and riding boots. William disappeared for weeks to govern his kingdom and visit Llewelyn and track unicorns and whatever else he did. Duana did not have traveling clothes; she had two babies in the nursery. She did not know if he wanted company on the trip, or to show her off in London, or thought her over-attached to their son, but she lay in bed, alone, and hated William with every fiber in her being. She wished her hatred could reach the sofa and hurt him.

The bedchamber door opened. She briefly, foolishly considered attacking him.

William moved as silently as a cat, as if he assumed Duana slept and did not want to wake her. She did not hear footsteps but saw the light from his candle through the gap in the closed bed curtains. The hinges of the chest squeaked as he opened the lid, closed it again softly, and locked it. She waited for the door to close as he left, but instead William’s voice asked softly, “Duana, are you crying?”

She did not answer, but she could only go without breathing for so long. At her next sob, the bed curtains parted. She saw William’s face in the candlelight. His cheeks bore dark stubble, and he looked weary.

“Please do not cry.” He sat on the edge of their bed, holding the candle and watching her. “Please.”

Duana covered her face with her hands and arms as if trying to protect herself and cried harder.

“Duana, please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do not cry. You will be fine. The children will be fine.”

She waited for William to try to comfort her so she could jerk away, but he remained at the edge of the mattress. She wiped her face and glanced at him. 

William explained his distance. “I am afraid you have a knife.” 

“You took it,” she said between sobs.

“I know. I am afraid you have another knife.”

She shook her head she had no weapon. Though she understood why Queen Eleanor once declared war against her own husband. 

William set the candle in the nook of the headboard and moved close to her. As much as she did not want it to, the hand he put on her shoulder felt comforting. As did his lips kissing her neck, and her shoulder, and wherever he found bare skin.

“Please do not cry, Cariad,” he requested again, between kisses. He pushed her hair aside and massaged her sweaty neck. He kissed her earlobes and the curve of her ear. He dotted kisses down the slope of her shoulder as he whispered, “I am so, so sorry.”

She sniffed and said, “If you are sorry, let me remain in Aber.”

She waited for some explanation as to why he acted cruelly. William would try to explain away a rainy day, but the answer she got was a resolved, “I cannot.”

Her angry, impotent tears started again, spilling out of her eyes and streaking her cheeks. As she lay on her side and sobbed, William continued to stroke her shoulder. Smooth her hair. 

The miserable minutes tumbled into hours as he sat with her, soothing her as he would a child. Duana thought of resisting. She thought of screaming at him she was not a girl and did not want welcome his ministrations. She lacked the energy.

Eventually, she rolled away from him, to her back. “I hate you,” she rasped, feeling beaten and raw.

In response, his fingers fumbled with the laces at the neck of her chemise, untying it. He kissed the skin between her breasts and up her throat. The stubble on his face scraped against her damp skin and his breath felt hot. For the first time, he did not ask her permission, but perhaps he wanted to remind her he did not have to.

“Hate me, but do not cry, Cariad.” He moved away, and she heard him blow out the candle. He returned shirtless. He lay down, and his arms encircled her. She felt the coarse hair on his chest and the broadness of his shoulders. She smelled his skin: leather and tallow, clean linen and wood smoke and soap. His body felt as hard and strong as hers was soft. 

He covered his mouth with hers, gently insisting her lips part. His hands roamed her body, exploring and caressing and comforting her. He found her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. 

William kissed down her neck and put his mouth to one breast, then the other. The sensation was nice, and her body relaxed. Duana closed her eyes. He pushed the blankets aside, pulled her chemise up, and kissed down her abdomen. The heat from his skin radiated through her. He touched between her legs with his fingers and, still holding her hand, lowered his head and began to explore her secrets with his tongue.

She remembered this particular sin from the MayDay bonfires. Tiny, pleasant little flames spread from his mouth to deep inside her body. Duana moaned and shifted her hips, not sure if she wanted to press toward or shrink away from the sensation. 

He paused to tell her, “Do not move.”

William placed her hands flat beside her hips, let go, and pushed her legs farther apart. His tongue felt rough and insistent against the little knot of flesh at the top of her sex. He pushed his finger slowly inside her. 

Her breath quickened and the crest of a wave began to build inside her. She did not move.

She gasped as he pressed a slick fingertip against the opening to her bottom. “Did your Count show you that, as well?” William’s voice asked mockingly. He stopped though, and instead two fingers pressed into her vagina, filling her and sliding in and out as she panted and whimpered.

The rhythm of his fingers and mouth felt like ocean waves pressing deeper and deeper inside her. Disobeying her husband, she put one hand on the crown of his head and ran her fingers through his silky hair.

Her thighs began to tremble. She arched her back, surrendered to the sensation, and cried out as the wave inside her broke. And crashed and broke again.

William kissed his way back up her body and curled up behind her. He stroked her bare hip and bottom. He put his arms around her, cupping her full breast as his lips toyed with her ear. He whispered sweet things to her in Welsh, and she smelled the scent of her body on his face. Through his breeches, she felt his erection against her bottom. The hardness made her gasp again.

“Turn on your hands and knees.” She heard him untying his breeches. “I will be gentle; I swear it.”

"Like this." She started to roll toward him. She wanted to feel his weight on her, be able to touch his face.

"Do as I tell you," he insisted. “Your disobedience cost me a handful of hair.” After a second, he reminded her, "Duana, you just had a baby."

Duana stared at him – or, at least, at where she assumed William to be in the darkness. She did just have a baby, but she had not thought herself so unappealing William did not want to see her. William always wanted to see her. With the candle snuffed and the bed curtains drawn, he could pretend any woman he liked. The tanner’s wife, or another beautiful woman from the drawings he kept secreted in his desk. Peasant women, noblewomen, Norman prostitutes, even an Infidel woman wearing only a veil. A striking, dark-haired young woman Duana took to be Diana. Gwilym still looked at those finely-drawn trophies. Duana found the drawings reordered, sometimes.

"I do not want to crush you," William explained, though he obviously lied. Their bed was soft, and he had never ‘crushed’ her, even in her fifth month with Eimile and their son. Or, if William truly feared hurting her, he could have her to be atop him. Instead he moved her pillow aside and repeated, “Turn on your hands and knees.”

With clenched teeth, she silently obeyed.

The bed shifted as he shucked off his breeches. His hands touched her hips, caressed her back. His erection pressed against her and slid inside her sex.

"So sweet," she heard him whisper, and a hand stroked her back again.

Her legs should be farther apart but since he did not command that, Duana did not do it. She heard him gasp as his next thrust sank deeper, but she did not move. She did not resist, but she did not move or make a sound, either.

"Pretty girl, relax or it will hurt."

She gritted her teeth, staying sullenly silent. William was right: at his next thrust, she gasped involuntarily as his prick pushed farther inside her. The muscles of her sex ached in protest, refusing to open. She would, though. He was stronger; each slow thrust pushed deeper, like water eroding stone. Soon, he would fill her, making her ache deep, deep between her legs. He could pretend whatever he liked as he took pleasure in her body. Leave her sore tomorrow. Put another son in her, so he could drag her away from that baby on a whim. 

“Am I hurting you?” he asked breathlessly, from behind her. “Tell me truly.”

She clenched her jaws and let her head hang down, vowing silence. She did not want his prick inside her, and if she had a dagger, she might thrust it deep into his body and ask if it hurt.

“Duana,” he said sharply.

“Does it matter to you?” 

To her surprise, he pulled his hips back, leaving her. She heard him exhale unhappily. He patted her bottom, but lay down. 

Since she felt foolish on her hands and knees, she pulled down her chemise and lay beside him. 

After a moment, he rolled toward her. He scooted closer to run his hand across her soft belly. "It is too soon?" 

"It would seem so," she answered coolly.

His naked body remained insistent; she felt his erection against her thigh. Instead moving on top of her, he kissed her cheek. "All right," he said in a husky, hungry voice. He moved away. She felt his warm hand near hers, but he did not touch her.

She heard him take a long, shaky breath as if trying to relax. William did not have a mistress, despite the months since he had been with Duana. He waited. He had some old, silly drawings hidden away, but he wanted only her, he said. 

Her anger cooled, leaving her unhappy and embarrassed. "I am sorry."

"It is all right," he answered uncomfortably. “You are correct; it is too soon. I had not counted the days.”

"It does not matter. I will do whatever you want." She sat up. She would be sore tomorrow; she would not die.

"No." He said it firmly and in French, like he declined more wine. 

Her face felt hot. "Do you want fellatus?"

After a few seconds, he said, "I am unsure of that word."

"My mouth," she said simply.

His hips shifted on the mattress. Again, he used a single French word, “Yes,” to consent, though he sounded as if he knew he should not.

She moved down his body, doing as she was told. William gasped as she took him in her mouth. He pressed up on one elbow. She felt his muscles tense and heat from his skin beneath her fingers. He touched her face and ran his fingers through her hair. She slowed, tormenting him by drawing out the pleasure. He tried to thrust, but she held his hips still. She knew what he wanted, and she took cruel pleasure in controlling him for a few minutes.  
She conceded a faster pace, and he pleaded for her not to stop. His breath quickened and his fingers tightened in her hair. She heard him take the name of God in vain, and swear his love for her, and bless the Count of Pembroke.

Afterward, he said nothing. An awkward, embarrassed nothing. William fell back on the pillow. She lay beside him, not touching, but listening as his breathing slowed. 

Without a word, William got up. He moved around in the darkness as if gathering his clothes, and silently left to go hide in his office. The bedroom door closed quietly. Within a minute though, she heard something shatter against a wall and William cursing. 

Duana rolled to her side and adjusted her pillow unhappily. She slid her hand beneath the pillow, and discovered a small, smooth rock, of all things.

In the office, it sounded like a metal tray or pitcher got hurled at the stone wall.

She dropped the little rock on the floor and resumed miserably not sleeping. 

*~*~*~*

They would leave for London at dawn, he said, and William defined morning as far earlier than the rest of the world. Sometimes her husband woke hours before the cock crowed or the monks began Lauds.

Duana knew she slept at some point because she woke – tired and stiff, with different but equal aches in her head and between her legs – to a bleary-eyed maid offering breakfast at five in the morning. She heard horses trotting through the bailey and people hurrying in and out of the office. William must be up and in command. He had his young knights and squire scared senseless as of late. With the servants, he gave a hundred directions at once and made each order sound like life or death. He assigned the same minor errand to three different servants, but never designated vital tasks – only to bark about the chaos and lack of progress. She could not imagine how he ever won battles.

Duana felt no need to hurry as she dressed. William, William’s knights, Prince Llewelyn, and Llewelyn’s knights would not leave for London without her. Only when she found the nursery abandoned did she develop any sense of urgency. Maids and knights and manservants hurried past as she stared at the empty crib and Eimile’s new little bed.

Behind her, Pyn’s voice said, “My lady. Downstairs.”

Duana grabbed her cloak and hurried down the stairs. Surely William would not send the children away without letting her say goodbye, she told herself. Surely not.

In the great hall, she had to push through the crush of people to reach the doors. To her relief, both nursemaids stood inside, holding the bundled up, sleeping children. The young women wore warm cloaks and looked ready to leave. Duana’s mother stood nearby, also bundled and wide-eyed in the candlelight. The tanner’s pregnant wife – who kept accidentally calling the lord of the castle “Will” – sipped tea, looked queasy, and wore a cloak Duana recognized as William’s old gray one. William had told Duana he would send the children to Llewelyn’s court for safekeeping; he had not mentioned Muretta. Or Duana’s mother.

The nursemaids and the tanner’s wife looked at Duana pityingly. 

Outside, the frigid wind and sleet bit at Duana’s face. A thousand things happened at once in the pale gray light preceding dawn. Four of William’s knights sat on their destriers, ready to ride. Llewelyn’s knights stood holding their own horses and, by torchlight, a blacksmith hurriedly shod Duana’s new mare. Stable boys and squires held a second palfrey, and loaded pack horses, and spare destriers for the knights. She saw a loaded wagon beside the stable; she did not know what it held or how William thought he would get that wagon anywhere in the snow. Four more horses were saddled and ready, presumably for the nursemaids, Muretta, and Duana’s mother.

William stood with Prince Llewelyn and Merfyn near the stable, discussing something emphatically as the wind whipped their cloaks. As Duana watched, William gestured to the sky with his gloved hand, and to the saddled horses, and shook his head. Llewelyn leaned closer to William and sniffed. The Prince grinned.

Duana reached the men in time to hear William respond irritably, “Piss on you, Llewel. You sot, you bade farewell to half my kitchen maids last night.”

Prince Llewelyn held up two gloved fingers as Merfyn snickered.

Forgetting herself, Duana grabbed William’s sleeve and turned him toward her. “Do not let the nursemaids ride with the children,” she asked urgently. “If the horse stumbles, they could fall.”

It was the first time they had seen each other or spoken that morning. William managed to get ready without entering the bedchamber, and Duana had avoided the office. She read surprise and discomfort in his face. Still, William assured her, “My knights’ horses will break the trail, and Merfyn will ride and carry Eimile. They will leave later, once they see what direction the weather takes. It is too cold right now.”

The wind felt frigid. Already, Duana’s cheeks went numb.

“What of the baby?” she demanded.

“With me, Duana,” Llewelyn said. She turned to look up at the Prince, who wore the same grim, tired expression as William. “I will take the baby to Dolwyddelan Castle and catch up with you and Gwil tomorrow.”

An awkward silence followed.

“It is settled,” William said. 

He moved away to check the mare’s feet as the blacksmith finished. Merfyn relayed the plan to William’s knights, who dismounted and led their horses to the stable. Llewelyn checked the second mare and called to William the shoes looked fine.

Once William seemed certain of her mare, he led the horse to Duana. “Time to go.”

“The children-”

“Are asleep,” he interrupted. “And will not remember, anyway. Waking them to tell them goodbye serves your needs, not theirs.”

She stared at him, not even able to get her mouth to move in protest.

“Duana, you are dressed, our things are packed, and the horses are ready. It is time to go,” William repeated firmly.

Servants wrapped in blankets watched from the kitchens and stable. From the doorway of the great hall, Duana saw her mother ready to wave good-bye. Only Llewelyn’s knights sat ready to ride; no one from Aber would accompany them to London. A squire held her mare’s reins, and William stood ready to lift Duana into the saddle. A maid offered Duana’s gloves and wrapped fine linen around Duana’s head and neck, covering her mouth. The maid put a second cloak around Duana’s shoulders and pulled the hood forward.

Duana’s chin began to quiver. She knew she must move, but her body refused to obey. “How can you do this?” she demanded in a strangled voice.

William sniffed as if the cold made his nose run, and blinked several times. He whispered roughly, “They are my children too, and not the first children I have had to leave. Prolonging pain does not reduce it. Get on the horse.”

He lifted her up, and Duana found herself in the side saddle. Out of habit, she adjusted the linen veil over her face. The maid passed a blanket to William, who wrapped that around Duana, as well.

Duana did not see Goliath. Instead, a stable boy and a squire struggled to hold a big gray gelding dancing backward and sideways each time William tried to mount. Once William was in the saddle, the horse bucked, sending the squire scurrying for safety. Merfyn hurried to help, and managed to grab the bridle. The destrier danced in place unhappily. William stood in the stirrups, jerked the reins tight, leaned forward and had an angry discussion with the horse.

William said something to Merfyn, who nodded. Duana heard the sergeant say, “I will use pack horses if oxen cannot get through. We will sail from St. Mary’s.”

William nodded.

Llewelyn’s knights maneuvered their horses into formation. Two horses in the lead would break trail through the snow, and had their lower legs wrapped protectively. Two more knights followed, each leading an extra horse. At the tail would be packhorses, several unsaddled destriers, and an extra palfrey for Duana. William had the winter journey planned out. The squire passed the mare’s reins to William, who silently and without looking back, led Duana out of Aber.

*~*~*~*

A series of Welsh lords, pleased to see new faces in the dead of winter, were unaware one member of Llewelyn’s party currently despised another member. Each gracious host presented a feast, and raucous entertainments, and insisted, as a blissful married couple, Gwilym and Duana share a bed.

Gwilym ached. Mountain passes treacherous in summer became nearly impassable on horseback in winter. They had ridden through snow as high as the horses’ chests – so high he put Duana on a knight’s spare horse as the little mares floundered through the drifts. Two days ago, they rode in a snowstorm so bad Gwilym could see only the knight riding in front of him and Duana behind. His eyes stung and his face and fingers froze. The snow and wind let up near the border, and the frigid rain started. And never ended. The rain soaked through his clothes, and his borrowed horse slipped and slid and trotted through every puddle. Gwilym missed his warm bed and his children and Goliath. Gwen’s cooking and Leuan’s advice and Duana’s good graces. He missed having his own knights and squire and servants. He had not been able to feel his toes or testicles until halfway through dinner.

He bathed with Llewelyn and Llewelyn’s knights, and ate with Llewelyn and Llewelyn’s knights, but Gwilym did not care if Duana hated him. He had checked on her earlier, seen their bedchamber, and he was sleeping in his half of that big, comfortable-looking bed. If he woke with a knife in his throat, so be it.

Duana, pleading illness, excused herself to rest as soon as they arrived that afternoon. In the bedchamber, a tray on the table indicated she had eaten, and her flushed face and damp hair suggested a bath. As she got ready for bed, Duana wore a familiar robe over her chemise: the one formerly his.

“Are you truly ill?” Gwilym asked after he dismissed the maid and manservant assigned to them. “Or just tired?”

Once again, Duana looked at him as if she wished she had a sword and weighed more than eight stones. Before he fell asleep, Gwilym should probably check her eating knife returned to the kitchen with the maid rather than been slipped beneath Duana’s pillow.

“Fine,” he muttered, and stripped off his tunic. A servant had cleaned his leather boots but they remained wet, and contained wet socks. Gwilym wore his last dry shirt and braies at dinner. His other clothes would be clean by morning but not dry unless the servant thought to hang them near the fire. Since Gwilym had not requested that, in all likelihood, tomorrow Gwilym would ride in damp breeches and socks. And full armor. He had ridden through Wales in a chest plate and helmet, but that was unwise in England. Riding in cold rain, in armor and chainmail, on the stupidest horse in the kingdom, constituted a special circle of Hell.

Gwilym’s hatred for the new king rapidly approached his hatred for the old one.

He moved Duana’s things to one end of a chest to make room for his clothing. He noted she, at least, still had dry, clean underclothes. He picked up a stack of folded little towels. 

Duana told him quickly, “Those are mine.”

That was the longest sentence she had directed toward him all day. 

“What are they?” he asked, thinking them left over from her bath. Normans had odd customs. Jousting, for instance. Carrying around ladies’ handkerchiefs. Pillows and forks, Gwilym adopted and enjoyed, but he wondered at the sense of drying after a bath with a dozen little towels.

“They are mine,” Duana repeated irritably. She walked to him. “I asked the maid to bring them.”

“But what are- Oh.” Gwilym put the towels down quickly. “That must be miserable.”

“As compared to leaving my children? My flux rates surprisingly low.”

“Do you care to know where I am chaffed?” 

Her expression indicated she did not.

“This is probably our last comfortable night,” he said. “Once we cross into England, the castle gates are unlikely to open. It will be taverns and inns the rest of the way to London, unless I can pass you off as a man and talk my way into a Templar monastery.”

Gwilym spoke to fill the silence as he undressed, so he was surprised she responded. “I do not even know which castle this is.”

He folded back the bedcovers as she took off her robe. “A warm, dry one.”

She slid across the mattress, making room for him, and Gwilym lay down with a weary moan. He had not closed the bed curtains, but he did not care. He prayed he could sleep and the monsters returning to prowl his dreams as of late would find other amusements for one night.

“Prince Llewelyn drinks too much.” Duana sounded equally bone tired. “He stumbled in earlier, thinking this was his bedchamber.”

Gwilym lifted his head from the pillow. “And?” Llewelyn’s knight guarded Duana’s room, but - of course - would let Llewelyn pass. She was correct; the Prince drank far too much and bedded every pretty, willing woman he encountered on his way to London.

“He stared at me for a minute, told me I was dead, and stumbled out again.”

Gwilym relaxed and shifted closer to her. “He thought you were someone else.”

“He drinks too much,” she repeated, as if Gwilym should rectify this.

“Llewel’s wife miscarried another son, and Gruffydd remains jailed somewhere in London Court.” He paused, but admitted, “I dread seeing The Tower and the gallows, but at least I know Dafydd is beyond fear and pain. Llewel does not know that of Gruffydd.”

He told the truth because lying took thought and effort, but Duana’s demeanor changed. The film of icy anger around her seemed to crack. She rolled to face him, and her blue eyes looked infinitely sad.

“I had not considered that.” 

She waited like she expected Gwilym to speak. Instead, he exhaled and put his arms around her. The world steadied. The discomforts of the road faded from his mind, and he remembered his true course and destination. She was his anchor, no matter the length of the tether. 

Changing the subject, he said, “Llewelyn says he knew you when you were married to the Count of Pembroke. Countess Duana,” he said, trying out the idea.

Her breath felt warm against his neck. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“Cariad, it was two years.”

She remained quiet, as if counting the months. 

Gwilym stroked her hair and back but stopped. He felt bandages beneath her chemise. “Duana, what is this?” She was not injured, to his knowledge.

“The maid did it. She thought I would be more comfortable since I cannot nurse.” She added a second later, “The binding helps. I will be fine to ride tomorrow.”

He resumed stroking her back, and mentally reformulated his hatred of the new Norman king. They traveled at a snail’s pace, but Gwilym would have Llewelyn slow further. 

He felt Duana’s hand on his chest, near his heart. “I had not considered horrible memories await you in London, as well.”

“I will keep you safe,” he promised. “You and the children.” 

“We will be home and see them soon,” Duana said, as if she reassured herself.

Gwilym pretended to be asleep and did not answer.

*~*~*~*

Duana never failed to surprise him. In London, Gwilym could find Westminster, The Tower, two whorehouses, the Thames River, the bridge, and a tavern serving a lamb stew rivaling Gwen’s. Duana knew the exact location of a Templar church she said she had never visited. 

She signaled. Gwilym reined his borrowed horse so quickly the knight riding behind him almost ran his mount into Lariat’s haunches. Gwilym called to Llewelyn they were stopping, though Gwilym and Duana had stopped.

The Prince of Wales turned his horse and rode back, looking displeased. They neared London Court, but Gwilym was off his horse and splashing through the icy mud and muck of the street. Gwilym helped Duana down from her mare and, so her skirt stayed clear of the filth in the open sewer, lifted and set her on the front steps of Temple Church. 

“What is wrong?” Llewelyn asked as Duana disappeared inside the church.

“She wants to confess,” Gwilym lied.

“Now?”

Before Gwilym could respond, one of Llewelyn’s knights yelled for him to catch his horse. Lariat the Stupid did not ground-tie as Goliath did, especially among the temptations of London. Gwilym whistled to no avail, so he enlisted Llewelyn’s knights as herdsman and gave chase. By the time Gwilym pulled Lariat away from a cart of cabbages - chewing happily - attempted to compensate some red-faced English farmer, and been called "a base-born Welsh son who laid with sheep," Llewelyn had dismounted. The Prince sat on the cold church steps, drinking from a wineskin.

The knights stayed close, watching the crowds for any sign of trouble. Their armor made them stand out, as did their clean-shaven faces. Beards were a Norman custom, so each man made it a point to shave that morning, before they reached London. Even Llewelyn, who could speak French without an accent, shaved off a week’s worth of fine chestnut-colored beard. Following the Welsh style, beneath her hood Duana wore a veil over her hair but no wimple around her neck. In Wales, men said the only good Norman was a dead Norman; in London, men said the same but about Welshmen.

Minutes passed. Snowflakes drifted down in a way that would have been pretty, had they not been landing on London. A stray dog and a pregnant sow roamed past. A beggar hobbled by. A woman emptied a chamber pot out of a second story window. Beneath the ice and filth, a layer of green slime covered the stone-paved street. A rat ventured from between two houses, watching them.

“How many sins does your wife have to confess?” Llewelyn asked.

Gwilym shrugged noncommittally, which bought him another moment. 

Two more rats joined the first and stood on their hind legs in the patchy snow.

Eventually, Llewelyn ordered tersely, “Go get your wife.”

Armor clinking, Gwilym trudged as slowly as possible up the steps and opened the massive church door. 

Duana was not confessing, of course. She was not in the dim chancel, but sat alone on the stone floor in the round nave, among the effigies and mausoleums, beside a low marble coffin. She looked up as Gwilym approached. 

“Llewelyn grows restless.” His voice and footsteps echoed loudly through the room. “I give him two minutes before he comes in after us.”

The coffin’s inscription read, 'Walter Marshal, Count of Pembroke and Striguil' and the stone effigy’s pose and dress indicated a Templar knight. Walter Marshal had been an advisor to kings and leader of armies. In his youth, he was the greatest knight of his age, and Marshal of England, with his original surname lost from memory. Duana said Walter asked to be buried here but she did not know if he was. All she knew was the old king summoned Walter to Court, and she soon became a widow.

Gwilym shivered as a chill passed through him.

“His son must have paid for this effigy,” Duana said absently. “It is nice. The stone is good quality and the carving well-done.”

Not knowing what else to do, Gwilym nodded in agreement. 

"Do you know the term 'Kingmaker,' William?” she asked. Gwilym nodded again. A Kingmaker guided a young prince, teaching the heir statecraft and war – much as Gwilym tried to do with Llewelyn’s son Rhys. “Walter was Kingmaker and high council to Henry Plantagenet's sons,” Duana said. “To Prince Henry before he died, and to Richard the Lionheart, and to John Lackland. King John seized half Walter’s lands and took his son as a hostage, and still he was loyal. Walter said he pledged fealty to the Crown, not to any one man."

Gwilym hoped he nodded eloquently. 

"Young King Henry - the brat-King, as you call him - I have kissed his scraped elbows and dried his tears while his mother inspired poems. Every Plantagenet prince of England learned his lessons in our home, and King John had Walter executed as a traitor without a second thought so he could bed me. I did not know it was the King's right. I had no right to refuse, and I was no one, but I was the one thing Walter refused to give to the Crown."

Gwilym shifted his weight from foot to foot, not sure what to say or do. He did not begrudge tears over a dead man, but she did not cry. Duana sat on the floor of the cold church with her hand on the marble effigy of the late Count of Pembroke. 

Perhaps the young King merely wanted to see Duana. Perhaps there was no trap, no sinister or ulterior motive - only a thoughtless boy who wanted his way. Gwilym quickly reconsidered. All Normans had a sinister or ulterior motive.

Duana looked up at Gwilym and asked abruptly, “Have you ever beheaded someone?”

“In battle. Also, I have ordered it done as execution.”

“What is it like?”

“Quick,” he said honestly. ‘Bloody’ also came to mind, but sounded less comforting. “A strong man with a sharp sword: it is quick. One hard stroke. Painless, they say. If I must choose how I die... It is quick.”

He stepped closer. Duana leaned her head against the metal armor on his leg. She did not cry or even look teary. She seemed empty.

Gwilym decided Prince Llewelyn would have to wait.

*~*~*~* 

As stable boys led the horses away, the castle’s heavy front gate lowered. William, Prince Llewelyn, and four Welsh knights stood with Duana inside London Court, and there was no getting back out without the King’s consent.

William could get out, Duana assured herself. Her husband wore full armor and carried a Viking sword. He was General of the Welsh Army, and brilliant, and ruthless, and he could get in or out of anywhere he liked. He did not lose: at chess or in battle.

Dozens of royal knights guarded the castle, though, and William was one man. 

No gallows or execution block sat on The Tower green, but Duana’s mind saw them there. She heard little boys crying and Walter calling for her and the sound of a king’s footsteps approaching in the hallway. She tried to ignore the growing feeling of being dirty all over and her lungs had begun to close off.

William had no expression. He could be as expressionless as a corpse, as could Prince Llewelyn. As they walked deeper into London Court, Llewelyn seemed watchful but William looked deadly.

She felt William’s hand on the small of her back as if he guided and protected her. He told her once if there was no choice, she should do whatever she must to stay alive. He said bruises healed and nightmares faded; all she must do was keep breathing. Duana kept breathing, shut off her thoughts, and accompanied the men into the castle.

As they passed The Tower, she saw William’s eyes linger with Llewelyn’s on the high stone walls. His face did not change.

The royal seneschal spoke to Prince Llewelyn. William nodded for Duana to translate, so she repeated softly in Welsh, "I will arrange an audience with the King for Prince Llewelyn and Lord William at Westminster tomorrow. Tonight, please enjoy the hospitality of Court. There are rooms for you and your men. Countess Duana is to-" She glanced at William anxiously and translated, “Countess Duana is to come with me. Him.” 

William's hand clutched the fabric of her damp cloak.

“What does he want with me?” Duana asked Llewelyn as her heart pounded.

William pulled her a few steps backward, and Llewelyn's knights stepped in front of Duana, hands on their swords.

"Her apartment is ready." The seneschal addressed Prince Llewelyn instead of Duana or William. "Did you expect the Countess to sleep with you and your knights?"

William and Llewelyn exchanged looks as Duana translated. She felt William relax his grip. 

The seneschal showed Llewelyn to his chamber but seemed puzzled and annoyed as William continued with Duana through the halls.

"I go with my wife," William said in broken French. 

That was not the custom at Court, and the seneschal’s nostrils widened in distaste. Duana remembered this man from her previous unwilling trip to London. He was an apple with worms: smooth outside but rotten from beneath the surface to the core.

William had an expression – one suggesting arguing with him would be unwise.

The seneschal nodded to the two Welsh knights accompanying them. “These men are unnecessary. His majesty has ordered royal guards for the Countess.” He did not address William but spoke in his vicinity. 

Duana translated, but not William’s response which was, in Welsh, “Piss on his majesty’s guards.” 

In a gratingly obsequious manner, the seneschal responded, “I assure you, the Countess will be comfortable and safe.”

Her heart still pounded and now her teeth clenched. “Geoffrey,” she said sharply, recalling the seneschal's name after some thought. "I am Lady Duana." She spoke slowly so William understood. "My husband is William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd." 

There was a pause. She noticed William toying with the hilt of his sword. 

"Yes, my lady," Geoffrey replied. Turning in the opposite direction of the chamber assigned to her two years ago, he said, "This way, Lady Duana. My Lord," he added, nearly managing not to sneer. 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym suspected the apartment assigned to ‘Countess Duana’ once housed the Queen. Or at least, a queen. Finely carved furniture filled the large sitting room and colorful tapestries covered the walls. Rugs covered the floors and the windows were clear glass. They could have shared the velvet canopied bed comfortably with three other couples. A row of maids stood waiting to take care of Duana, but no manservant came to attend Gwilym.

The largest looking glass he had ever seen hung behind a sofa. Not polished metal, but true glass backed with silver. As Duana washed and changed in the bedchamber, Gwilym examined his reflection. He imagined a dead man looked back. His reflection bore different scars and wore different clothing, but the empty expression was the same.

Dead or not, he washed off and put on a clean shirt. At Duana’s command, a maid took his boots and tunic, and returned them a half an hour later, as clean and dry as could be expected. Gwilym sat on the sofa and took a piece of cheese from the tray on the table. He lay back and ate a little apple. A sweet. More cheese. He reached for the wine. A maid hurried to fill his goblet.

Long ago, when a Norse chieftain died his clansmen chose a pretty female slave, and fed and bathed her, and lavished her with jewelry. Gave her all the wine she could drink. Led her aboard the beautiful boat where the chieftain lay surrounded by his armor and riches. The Norsemen drugged, raped, and murdered the girl, and burned her body along with the dead chieftain.

Gwilym felt like that girl, though he hoped he was not required to fuck six men before he died.

That must be the reason for the huge bed, he thought sardonically.

Duana emerged from the bed chamber with a clean face, no veil, and wearing a fine dress of dark blue silk and velvet Gwilym had not seen in a long time. In fact, he had seen her wear it thrice – the night she arrived in Aber, the afternoon they married, and at Llewelyn’s Christmas court. At Christmas court Duana had been more elaborately dressed than Princess Joanna. Gold embroidery decorated the dress’s hem and the waist, and gold braid followed the seams. Gwilym had no eye for women’s clothing but he suspected that dress cost the late Count of Pembroke a small fortune.

“It is too tight,” Duana said in Welsh. She turned to show him how widely the dress was laced down her back. “I thought it would be.”

“You should have more pretty clothing.”

“I do not need more pretty clothing.” The hem of her skirt touched the rug, and the fabrics whispered to each other as she came to him. “I need to see you are well, and to go home.” She adjusted the skirt and sat on his lap, facing him. “Are you? Well?”

The row of maids stood along the wall near the door to the hall. Duana seemed to think nothing of their audience.

“I will be pleased to leave,” Gwilym answered neutrally.

She put her hands flat on his chest and her face close to his. “I hate it here,” she said softly. “Every corner holds a nightmare waiting to ambush me.”

“No nightmares tonight.” He touched his lips to hers. “Tonight, I will be with you.”

He could have closed his eyes and slept for a week, and likely Duana could do the same. The hour was late enough to be considered evening, and the lavish bed called. Gwilym suspected her flux had passed, and he thought himself a convincing actor. He could manage coitus interruptus, as the Romans had – poor aim, a convenient accident. A sin of a few inches carrying the threat of eternal damnation.

The maids watched them alertly. The hall door opened. Two manservants tiptoed in to join the ranks.

Duana nestled against him contently.

“Will they ever leave?” Gwilym asked. “Or do they continue to multiply?”

Duana opened her eyes and glanced at the row of servants. “This is their job.”

“Will they accompany us to the bed chamber?”

She nodded her head. 

“Are these deaf servants?” he asked, “or will we be judged from the other side of the bed curtains, as the knights and I judge Llewel?”

She chuckled quietly. “How do you judge Prince Llewelyn?”

“He seems to rate well.”

“I heard the same at Christmas Court.” Duana took his hand and whispered mischievously, “Stretch, and with your arm, as if by accident, knock everything from the side table to the floor. Create a distraction. I will run for the bed chamber. Follow me, and we will bar the door.”

“An excellent plan.” As he moved to execute it, though, Gwilym heard footsteps approaching in the hall. Men’s heavy footsteps. Men wearing armor. Men wearing swords. 

The footsteps stopped at the apartment door. Duana ran for the bed chamber – though to retrieve her veil rather than to hide. Her hair was braided but not pinned up or covered. 

Gwilym ran after her. Behind him, outside the door, he heard a man speaking French to the Welsh knights. 

He grabbed Duana's wrist, jerked her back to him, and whispered quickly, "Llewelyn received a summons to bring you to Court. Your old titles were on the letter. I suspect the King wants to reinstate your widow's rights to Pembrokeshire and find a more politically useful husband for you."

Duana stared at him. She held her veil in one hand, and he held her wrist.

"If I am dead, Llewelyn will claim Eimile and Mab as his. As my liege lord, he has the same right of primae noctis as the King. Say Eimile is his by that first night here in London, and Mab is his because you are his mistress. His sons' mother, Tang: you look like her, Duana - enough he would arrange a nominal marriage to me to have you close by. Say Mab is his; the King will execute my son, but not Llewelyn's. Llewel will confirm your story." Gwilym took a quick breath. "Our marriage is legal. Llewelyn will see my kingdom passes to Mab, but you must remarry to hold land in Wales. Otherwise, the land becomes Llewelyn's until Mab is of age. If you want to remarry, let Llewelyn guide you and pick a man who will be good to you and the children. Do you understand?"

She blinked, creased her brow, and said, “You think the King summoned you, not to pay homage, but to execute you? Is that why no one from Aber is with us?”

“He has more than enough reasons. Even if he did not, he will find one.”

A servant announced their visitor in French. The apartment door opened.

“Why did you come?” she demanded.

"If Llewelyn or I disobey the summons, we are guilty of a felony. Our lands - all of north Wales and much of the south - revert to the Crown. I cannot take you and run this time, but Leuan made me learn all that damn Norman law. I will see you and the children are safe.” He heard footsteps in the next room. “Cariad, tell me you understand!" 

With her eyes wide, Duana nodded she understood.

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym could not decide if he needed his sword or not. He felt as if he drank blindly from a jug and swallowed something entirely different than he expected - sweet milk instead of tart wine. He could not tell if it tasted offensive in that first second. 

Duana paled, and Gwilym thought she saw a ghost. 

A tall, handsome, dark-haired knight stood outside the bedchamber door. “Duana?" the man said uncertainly, with a French accent.

Gwilym let go of her wrist.

Duana smiled - one of those happy, relaxed smiles like after their son had come, or the morning she had caught Gwilym singing and dancing around with Eimile. Bareheaded, she rushed to the nobleman and tiptoed to wrap her arms around his neck.

Gwilym’s stomach dropped. His heart felt like an ax cleaved it. ‘Mulder,’ he assumed. Three fingers taller and a stone heavier than Gwilym, with a French nobleman’s clothes and his own royal guards.

"Fitz, I was afraid," Duana said in French. "I was afraid you were dead as well until I saw the tomb. I am so sorry, Fitz." 

'Fitz' put his arms around Duana and lifted her off her feet. Seeming to remember himself, he set her down, kissed her forehead, and stepped back. Gwilym struggled to understand what the man said. His French was colloquial and quick, but he seemed to apologize and speak of his father. "You never would have been married to a Welshman if I had been here" - that Gwilym understood. "This is not your fault. You did not do anything wrong, Duana," he said. He rested his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her with dark eyes twinkling warmly. "You did not, did you?"

"Do not question me, Fitz," she said, stepping back. 

"I am sorry," Fitz apologized, looking chastised. "Of course you did not." He smiled again. His hands traced down her shoulders, and Duana did not object. "It is so good to see you. I did not know where you were or Something Something in French. Something more in French. I did not know if that Welshman would let you come, even with the summons." 

"You sent the summons? Boy, write a polite letter if you want to see me," she scolded.

Gwilym raised his eyebrows. He placed this bearded boy’s age at a few years older than Duana. 

Fitz grinned down at her, even looking bashful. "Duana!" he said, seeming delighted to say her name. "My God, you are Something in French!” He tugged playfully at her short braid. “What has happened to your hair?”

“I was ill and it was cut,” she lied smoothly.

Fitz ran his thumb across the end of her braid. “Such a pity.” He lifted and kissed her hand. “Still, you are as lovely as ever. You finally look like a woman instead of a teenage girl." 

Gwilym decided; he did need his sword. He stopped lounging in the shadows and walked toward the happy couple. He remained prepared to kill someone, and now seemed a fine time.

"That is not a complement. I just had a baby." She twisted to show him the loosely-laced back of her dress, as she had Gwilym, and said something quickly about “summons” and “snow.”

The man grimaced. "Duana, no. Come home. I will see this Something Something, and you will come home," was what Gwilym thought he said. 

"Wales is my home. I am happy, Fitz," she replied. "It is different from my life before, but I am happy. Come, meet my husband." 

Fitz shook his head and wrinkled his nose. In Wales and the rest of the known world, men feared catching the French Pox. In England, men feared the same, but called the disease ‘Welsh Pox.’

Duana gestured for Gwilym. “This is who sent the summons for me, William. It is fine," she said in Welsh, and in French, "Fitz - William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. William speaks French, just speak slowly." 

Gwilym offered his hand, but Fitz looked skeptical. 

"Welsh does not rub off," Gwilym said tersely, in French. 

Fitz exhaled and took Gwilym’s hand, gripping harder than necessary. "I have heard much of you and your knights, Lord William." 

"Yet I have heard nothing of you," he replied sarcastically. 

"He is my stepson, William," Duana explained, still speaking French. Gwilym glanced at her, remembering what she told him of Pembroke’s stepson, but she added quickly, “My husband’s son. Fitz was a squire when his father and I married. That father would be ashamed of him because he is acting like a spoiled boy instead of a grown man." 

The tall nobleman grinned good-naturedly and offered his hand again. “Let us start over,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. "William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, like my father, I am the Count of Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Leicester, Marshal of England and adviser to the King. I was 'FitzWalter' at birth and Count Marshal FitzWalter to most, but Duana christened me 'Fitz' at seventeen, saying I was the image of Father. I have been 'Fitz' to her ever since." 

Gwilym put his hand on Duana's back possessively. If Count Marshal FitzWalter of Pembroke, Striguil, and Hell-If-He-Cared did not stop touching and kissing Duana, and appraising her with a lover’s eyes, Gwilym would slit his noble throat from ear to ear and float his body in the Thames. He considered asking if an observant few also called FitzWalter ‘Oedipus,’ but restrained himself.

"I am surprised she managed to name a boy,” Gwilym said in the friendly voice he reserved for telling French noblemen he was about to destroy their castles, burn their crops, and let his soldiers carry off their women. “Our daughter, she named before birth, but we have had a 'Mab' - a 'male child of' like 'Fitz' or 'Mac' - for almost two months. Samer?" he suggested to Duana."

"Gwyn," she countered. "I like Gwyn."

"Lord Gwyn ap Gwilym of Gwynedd? I beg you, do not do that to my son, Cariad." Looking to the man, Gwilym said casually, “Count Marshal FitzWalter, this new son may be 'Mab' all his life. Soon we will have another to name, and poor Mab may still be Mab. Mab ap Gwilym. My next son will get a number: 'Trydydd mab ap Gwilym.' 'Third son of William.' Or just 'Ap.' Ap Gwilym." He slid his hand from Duana’s back to her waist, touching her fondly. "Poor Ap. My grandson will be Ap ap Gwilym."

"I met a Fitz FitzWilliam, so it must be a common problem." Fitz replied casually but his brown eyes changed as Gwilym touched Duana. 

Gwilym liked to know the trap being laid for him.

*~*~*~* 

Though Fitz ordered the servants to cater to her every whim, Duana heard muttering among the chambermaids as they brought and filled the bath.

She ignored them and had the tub filled with hot water to the rim. Duana had a maid bring her a goblet of wine, sent everyone away, and soaked until her skin began to shrivel. In her mind, she turned over the plan William had told her, and thought of the tomb in Temple Church, and of seeing Fitz again. She thought of William and Llewelyn, in The Tower, and of her own son at home.

Duana wrapped herself in a towel and decided more wine was in order.

She did not summon the maids to empty the tub. The hovering servants annoyed William, silence was nice, and the water remained hot. William would want to bathe tonight, and he would likely want her.

She put on her last clean chemise, wrapped a towel around her wet hair, and lay back on the bed, looking at the elaborate fabric canopy in the candlelight. Her inner thighs ached from so many days in the saddle, and her head ached from too many thoughts. She remembered again William’s plan about Prince Llewelyn and the children, and she tried to convince herself William worried pointlessly. Duana reminded herself the old King was dead, and both Fitz’s and Prince Llewelyn’s knights guarded her apartment door. Her heart ached, and she wished with all her might William could walk out of The Tower with a living son, as Prince Llewelyn hoped to do.

Duana must have been dozing, because she woke to the sound of a door opening.

She sat up and called, “Did you see him?” Quickly, she rubbed her hair and put the towel aside. “Tell me of Prince Llewelyn's son.”

William did not answer, so she went to the sitting room. He stood with his back to her, silhouetted by the two torches burning on the far wall.

“Did you and Llewelyn see Gruffydd?” she asked again.

Her husband still did not answer. 

Something was wrong. Fitz said he would allow a visit, but perhaps the boy was sick. Or dead. William stood near the sofa in the dim room and still did not respond. Perhaps, she thought, Gruffydd was healthy and free and with his father, and William had left The Tower alone.

She raised her hand to comfort him, but heard a dead man say in fluent French, "Your husband is across the Thames sampling the Southwark whores. He is not worthy of you, Duana." 

The man was not William, nor Llewelyn, but Edward. 

Her heart pounded but she managed to say icily, “Get out, or I will yell for the guards.”

The guards had let this man pass, though. Edward resembled William, but not enough to fool the guards. Edward was slim and dark haired. Handsome even, if one could not see his eyes. William’s warm, dark eyes danced. Edward's dark eyes were and always had been dead. She had thought Edward dead. 

He stepped toward her. "Mother, that is not a warm welcome. Father and FitzWalter are not here. You can speak freely. You have come back to me. Let us start again."

She made good on her threat to yell for the guards, but heard no response from outside the door. There should be four knights in the hall, yet no one came. An invisible hand began tightening around her throat.

"Men should be careful of what they drink; it is easy to bribe a servant," Edward said flatly. He stepped closer. "No one will come. My stepfather is dead. Your heretic husband and my priggish step-brother are taking turns scrutinizing some slut. There is no one to keep us apart. You and I can talk, Duana." 

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, buying herself time. He stood between her and the door to the hall. She doubted she could outrun him to the bedchamber and bolt that door. 

"Old times. Old loves. I do still love you. I do. I do not care about everything that has happened. Come home." 

"I am not going to return to Pembrokeshire, Edward. Or remain in London. My husband will pay homage tomorrow and we will leave." 

"But I love you, Duana," he insisted in his slow, deliberate voice, with his face expressionless. "I have always loved you. In time, you will learn to love me again." 

"I have never loved you. 

"Oh, but you have," he said in a tone making her insides shiver. 

"There is no love in forcing a woman."

Edward shrugged. "You would have learned to love me if Father had not interfered. Father and FitzWalter. Come with me; let us start over. No Alex this time, no Father-" 

"Alex is dead. My husband executed him months ago. I love my husband, Edward, and I will never love you."

She saw his hand move out of the corner of her eye. Before she could dodge, he struck her, sending her sprawling back. The room swirled a dark gray, and seconds passed before she saw clearly again. No man had hit her in so long she had forgotten how much it hurt. 

"That Welsh heretic has bewitched you," Edward hissed. "He will pay. I am not some unwanted stepson now; I am a friend of the King. FitzWalter thinks he can become Father as Kingmaker. He cannot, of course, but it is amusing to see him failing. He is simple, this King Henry: simple and lonely and suggestible. I love you, and Father is not going to make that disapproving face and come between us. Nor will FitzWalter. I will deal with him, if he interferes again."

Duana tried to think. Help was not coming and she had nowhere to run. William left his sword on the table, knowing he could not bring it into The Tower. Duana grabbed it from the scabbard and held the sword with both hands as she turned back to face Edward. 

"Silly girl. Put that down before you hurt yourself." His mood shifted again as though made of mercury, his thoughts splattering, shifting, and re-forming. "You look foolish. That old sword is bigger than you are. I can take it away from you before you can blink." 

"Yes, you can. You can force me, but you must sleep sometime. My husband tells me it is possible to cut a man's throat while he sleeps; the man never wakes as he bleeds to death. It is a Welsh trick: to sneak into the enemy camp at night and start slitting throats. Is that so, Edward?” she asked coolly. “I think it must be. My husband has killed enough men to know. Are you so certain of my love for you? William will return any minute. We should tell the General of the Welsh army how you have 'loved' his wife and let him decide what to do, as he did with Alex." 

He took another step toward her. She raised the long sword. 

Edward’s eyes raked over her. "That Welsh bastard has bewitched you, but he cannot keep you from me for long. Accidents happen in battle. One tragic mistake could leave you a widow. A traitor in the ranks. Or a saddle girth breaking. If not- A doctor a few months past told me stories of William of Aber. Druids, Duana? Pagan ceremonies and changeling babies? That is heresy. Witchcraft. How can I allow that? What would Father say about me for allowing that?" 

Her arms began to tremble and ache from the sword’s weight. She took a breath and shifted her grip in the hilt. "He would say the same as he always did: nothing. He would try to right whatever you had done, Edward, and to compensate whoever you hurt. He would grit his teeth and square his shoulders and silently try to fix it because he promised your dying mother he would take care of you. After the mess was cleaned up and the door closed, though, he would grieve the boy he raised as his own had no more honor than an animal."

Edward started toward her, but Duana stepped forward so the tip of the sword was inches from his neck.

Edward stepped back. 

Duana did not have to be strong or skilled with a sword. She had to be quicker than Edward, and lucky. 

He looked at her with cool hatred. "You are a plaything, Duana." He put his hand on the door. "A lovely little witch who charmed me and charmed my family. You have done well for yourself, Countess - climbed quite high in this world on your back - but you remain nothing but a pretty Irish peasant." 

"Get out, Ed."

"You will be sorry," he promised. “You and that Welshman and FitzWalter and all of you who plot against me."

"Get out," she repeated. 

She managed to hold onto the hilt until his footsteps faded down the hallway. She dropped the sword, letting it clang to the floor. Duana threw the bolt on the door to the hallway, ran for the bedchamber, and bolted that sturdy door after her as well. 

*~*~*~* 

Pembroke Castle was a Norman outpost in the hostile land of southern Wales. Murder or kidnapping or siege was a danger, so guards stood outside her and Walter's bedchambers day and night. Knights guarded both entrances to the great hall, and the inner and outer castle gates. Men patrolled at night and kept watch from the towers. Walter had two-hundred knights in his household plus the men pledged to his vassals. He could summon an army of ten thousand by nodding his head and pay twenty-thousand mercenaries at the stroke of a quill. Duana rode with Walter sometimes to watch his army training: legions of men, drilling, jousting, making siege equipment, readying for war. After the Pope and the King of England, Walter was the most powerful man in the empire, and debatably more powerful than King John. 

Duana felt safe for so long she had forgotten she was not. 

Walter named his horse Louis after the old French King. Walter said the big chestnut gelding had the same plodding, placid, predictable temperament and therefore easy for him to manage – but Diana should not repeat that. The New Years past, Walter gave Duana a gray mare so pretty Duana named her Eleanor. Walter had teased her the beautiful, hot-tempered Queen Eleanor gave King Louis of France daughters and divorced Louis to marry Henry Plantagenet and become the Queen of England. Duana teased back that Walter and Louis better mind their manners. Walter had the last word. He told Duana the royal marriage had been stormy, with Queen Eleanor once declaring war against her own husband, King Henry. Eleanor almost won, according to Walter, who had been there. King Henry had Eleanor imprisoned in a remote castle for decades until Henry II died and her favorite son, King Richard, assumed the throne of England. 

“So pretty, fiery Eleanor would have been better off tolerating boring King Louis and remaining Queen of France,” Walter said, and grinned at her.

Duana cared for him; she did not doubt it. Walter, in turn, did everything in his power to keep her safe and make her happy. 

It was pretty Eleanor the Mare who nursed a sore foot, holding it up plaintively to show everyone her discomfort. The groom had assured Duana the mare would be fine in a week, but Duana went to the stables to check on her in the evening. She brought an apple for Eleanor and one for Louis who, true to his name, did not take much pleasure in eating it but did so predictably. Eleanor gobbled her apple up and nudged Duana with her nose, impatiently wanting more. 

"Silly girl," Duana told her, laughing and patting the mare’s velvety neck. "There are more in the cellar. Do not go to war."

Duana heard footsteps in the stable. She turned, expecting to see Fitz returning or one of the grooms or stable boys. She saw no one. It was late, and most knights were at their own hearths. Which was where Duana should be, as well, if Walter sent for her. 

She gave the mare a final pat, and made her way toward the entrance of the stable

From nowhere, a large hand covered her mouth. An arm grabbed around her waist, dragging her back into an empty stall. The man pushed her against the trough, bending her forward and pressing his body against her.

"Mother," Edward whispered in her ear, his breath smelling of ale. "Welcome me home."

Duana tried to scream but she could barely breathe. She kicked the side of the stall instead, trying to alert one of the grooms. 

Walter sent Edward on Crusade, wanting him as far away from her and England as possible. The young man was unpredictable, deciding women he did not even know were in love with him. It could be a kitchen maid, it could be another nobleman's wife; it did not matter. Edward started to believe the woman was in love with him despite what she claimed, and everyone plotted to keep her from him. Sooner or later, he started to hate each of the women, and he became dangerous. 

"You are not happy to see me?" Edward’s voice hissed. "It has been a long time."

Duana felt his hips pressing against her bottom, and how her struggling aroused him. Edward tried gather up her skirt but he had one hand over her mouth and one hand still trying to keep her still. Duana twisted and fought. She did not have to win, only delay him. Sooner or later, someone would come to the stables. Even another woman could go for help. 

"I bet you do not give Father and FitzWalter this much trouble, little countess," he said. "Come, give a crusader a nice welcome home ride."

He had her skirt and chemise up but had to adjust his grip to push his tunic aside and unlace his breeches. As he did, Duana bit his hand hard, causing Edward to jerk away and curse. 

"Stupid cunt!" he yelled and hit her with his fist. 

She fell backward and struck her head. She lay in the straw, dazed. She felt Edward on top of her, pushing up her skirt again and ripping open the front of her dress. Duana tried to get away but he covered her mouth with his hand again. Blood filled her mouth. She started to choke, to panic. 

As abruptly as Edward had grabbed her, he was gone. His hand left her mouth and his weight, her body. Duana coughed, spewing blood everywhere. She tried to catch her breath as she struggled to get up and escape. 

She heard blows landing and a body smack hard into a wall. Fitz's voice yelled for his men. Heavy footsteps came running. The horses called to each other in alarm. She heard more yelling, some from Edward and some from FitzWalter. 

Her vison cleared. She found Fitz’s anxious face a few feet from her.

“Fitz?” Her jaw ached.

"It is all right," he promised. 

She lay curled up in the corner of the stall. She smelled sweet straw and oiled leather and the horses.

"Jesus," he muttered, as if talking to himself rather than her. "My men have Edward." He gestured with his hand. "Come here, Duana."

Dazed, she tried to stand, but got dizzy and fell to her knees again. 

Fitz moved slowly toward her. Keeping his eyes on her face, he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She had not realized her dress was open to the waist, baring her breasts. Duana saw him look around before he shucked off his shirt. With the shirt, he cleaned the blood from her face. 

"If Father does not have him killed, I will," Fitz promised. "Jesus," he said again. "Did he sneak in or did some fool guard let him pass?" he asked, again talking more to himself. "You can buy a woman with a few coins. There is no reason for this. He is a crazy brute."

Duana stared at him numbly as her face and the back of her head throbbed. 

FitzWalter's destrier ambled out of the stable, still saddled, its reins dragging the ground. Fitz must have ridden in. He liked to spend his evenings with a girl in the village and wanted to bring her to the castle to live. But Fitz was barely nineteen and Walter would not allow it. Duana had overheard several arguments about it but, as always, Walter prevailed. 

"I am sorry." Fitz apologized as though he did something wrong. He looked at her face again. "I am going to pick you up, carry you inside to Father. I will not hurt you."

She continued to look at him stupidly. 

She remembered he lifted her easily, and she smelled a woman’s perfume on his skin as he carried her. The perfume was nice, and Fitz’s masculine smells familiar. As they neared the castle, she heard Walter's voice calling urgently for her and Fitz.

The next thing Duana remembered, she lay on a sofa in Walter's apartment with her head and face aching. She wore a chemise, and a warm blanket covered her. She opened her eyes. Duana started to tremble, but felt a man's gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"I was there. I saw. I am bearing witness," Fitz's voice insisted. He paced on front of the fireplace angrily. He remained shirtless, but wore a robe in addition to his breeches and boots. 

"You cannot bear witness in a court of law," Walter's voice said, and Duana realized her head was on a pillow on Walter’s lap. "You have not reached the age of majority and, anyway, I will not have her shamed in public.”

“Why should she be ashamed?” Fitz responded angrily. “Duana did nothing wrong.”

“That is not the way the world works, son. This is a private matter."

Walter took her hand, interlacing their fingers. 

"If it is private, let me kill him. Tonight. Name one soul who will grieve Edward," Fitz demanded. "Enough of this. You protect him and make excuses for him, but he is insane. Possessed. Dangerous. He has embarrassed our family too many times to count, and he will never stop."

"You will not harm him, son." 

"How can it be right to let him go free?" Fitz asked. 

"I did not say it was right," her husband said evenly, "I said it was the law."

"You did not see what he did to her. I want him dead."

"Do you think I do not want him dead at this moment, as well?" Walter asked softly. He stroked Duana’s shoulder with his hand. "I cannot set aside the King's law as I please, son. I will banish him," he conceded. "I cannot risk him hurting her again."

"You have sent him away before. Even if he never returns, Ed will harm other women in other lands. Probably, he has. He deserves to die. Duana did nothing to entice him; I would swear my life on it."

"As would I," she heard her husband say softly. "Are you awake, little countess?"

She nodded, and her head throbbed. 

"Are you not her lord and protector, Father? She is your wife. If this was my woman he touched, we would not be discussing what to do. Edward would be dead. You are Walter Marshal. Where is your rage?"

"My rage will wait. Ed will wait. My concern is my wife. Lower your voice, son," Walter said. "A frightened woman does not know if you are yelling at her, only that you are yelling."

Fitz came forward. He squatted down and looked at Duana from a few feet away. He shook his head angrily. "You are wrong, Father. Letting Edward live is a mistake." He did speak softly. "I do not care if it is lawful; it is a mistake. He is not a man; he is an animal, and the laws intended for men do not apply to animals."

"He is my son. Not my blood, but he is as much my son as you are," Walter responded quietly. "I could not order your death, either." 

Fitz shook his head again and stood. "He is not your son. I am your son. I am your blood and your heir. Yet you ignore my counsel, deny what I saw, endanger Duana, all for the sake of a madman. I could order his death," Fitz threatened. "And I will. You can protect him now, but not forever, Father." 

"That can be said of many things," her husband responded. "For now, I am the Count of Pembroke, Duana is my wife, and you will not harm your brother." 

Fitz tried one last time. "Sometimes, there is the law, and there is what is right." 

"No, FitzWalter, there is the law," her husband's voice said with finality. "When it is your son, you will understand. And this conversation has ended." 

Fitz did not respond, but Duana heard him exhale angrily. And quick footsteps left the room. 

"Noble Fitz," Walter said to himself thoughtfully, long after his son had gone. 

Walter's hand continued to rub Duana’s shoulder, and he said nothing else of either man. Servants brought cool cloths for her face, soup, and brandywine. Duana quaked inside and ached outside. Walter a dozen of his knights dress in chain-mail and battle armor, and flank the bed chamber door, showing her no one would get past. 

Each time Duana tried to sleep, she woke unable to breathe. Long after midnight, Walter had maids bring a bathtub and bucket after bucket of hot water. He watched silently, as if taking note of the bruises, while she washed and washed. So many candles burned in his bedchamber it was a bright as day, with no room for anyone to hide in the shadows. Afterward, he had a chair placed beside the bed and sat with her, on guard, as she watched the darkness and did not sleep. 

"Do not let him return," was the only thing she remembered saying to Walter all night. 

He nodded and offered her more brandywine. He still watched her, and behind his eyes she saw the cold rage Fitz thought his father did not feel. 

In the hour before dawn, she closed her eyes, more drunk on brandy and exhaustion than willing to sleep. She still felt her husband's eyes on her and his hand covering hers. 

Duana heard Walter summon his sergeant and tell him softly in French, "Find him. Do it quickly, painlessly."

Walter never knew she overheard. She had assumed Walter’s knights found Edward, despite Ed’s head start. Apparently, they had not, and Walter did not order them to keep searching. 

Walter said he and Fitz spoke the next morning, and Fitz decided to supervise the family’s land in Normandy for a time. From there, word came Fitz went to Languedoc, taking his knights and joining the Pope's holy war against the Cathars. Edward never returned to Pembrokeshire, but neither did his body. Duana's head stopped hurting. The bruises faded, the nightmares stopped, and life went on. Even pretty Eleanor the Mare's foot healed - so well Duana rode her from the King's Court in London, and through the snowy mountains to northern Wales years later. William traded the pretty mare to the alchemist, William sent Duana into hiding, and went to kill King John.

Duana was seventeen that night Edward returned, and it was years before they saw Fitz again. Even then, Fitz visited Pembrokeshire briefly before returning to war in France or the Holy Land. Like his father, he wanted to prove himself as a knight. So FitzWalter was not in England or southern Wales as King John summoned Duana to London Court, or arrested Walter, or ordered Walter's death. Or married Duana to William. Noble Fitz had been a thousand miles away, bravely fighting men he thought were his enemy. 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym’s lack of confidence in the Norman royal guards had been well-founded. The knights FitzWalter stationed earlier that evening were nowhere to be seen. The single Welsh knight guarding the apartment knocked on the door again and announced a second time, “His Lordship, your husband, Gwilym of Aber.”

“She knows who her husband is,” Llewelyn snapped irritably.

“Open the door,” Gwilym commanded. The sight of the empty cell beside Gruffydd’s in The Tower kept pressing into his mind, and his head ached from the pressure of holding back tears. Every part of him, inside and out, felt like a skinned knee. Even Llewelyn’s silent, expressionless horror and grief irritated Gwilym. He wanted to curl up in a corner and lick his wounds for a few hours.

The young knight looked at Gwilym stupidly and fumbled with the latch. “I cannot, my lord. It is barred.”

Gwilym tried the latch and banged on the door himself. The men waited a long moment. No sound came from inside the apartment. Gwilym knocked again. He tried the latch a second time. Along the castle hallway, doors began to open, and curious guests and servants peeked out to see who caused a disturbance so late at night.

Llewelyn stepped forward and pounded on the stout oak door with his fist.

“Does a prince knocking make the door more likely to unbar itself?” Gwilym asked sarcastically.

Llewelyn raised his index and middle fingers at Gwilym in a vulgar salute. “Would she truly lock you out? Have you no control of your wife?”

Gwilym opened his mouth to say he, unlike Llewelyn, had never found his wife in their marriage bed with a Norman knight: not held down, but astride and happily going for a ride on the visiting Norman’s prick. For once, he held his tongue. “Where is the other guard?” he demanded.

The lone knight blinked and answered, “He is unwell. He went to vomit, and to find another knight to stand guard.” The young man added uncertainly, “I am not sure how long ago. I cannot remember.”

“Where are the maids?” The royal servants multiplied like rabbits earlier but none answered the door. 

“I believe her ladyship sent them away.”

“You believe?” Gwilym looked closely at the guard, who swayed on his feet. “Are you drunk?”

One of the knights who accompanied Llewelyn added his knock to the door.

The unsteady guard swallowed and answered. “I am unwell, your lordship, but there was no one else to stand guard. Your lordship said to stand guard, and I could not leave her ladyship to find another knight.”

Llewelyn glanced at Gwilym worriedly and ordered his knight, “Fetch an ax.”

One of Llewelyn’s knights ran for an ax, and the other tried breaking down the door with his boot and shoulder. The knight guarding Duana’s apartment leaned back against the stone wall rather than standing at attention. Noble guests and servants stood in the hallway, watching the commotion.

“Wait,” Gwilym commanded. Llewelyn’s knight stopped battering the door, and Gwilym heard footsteps inside the apartment. 

“William?” Duana’s voice asked.

“It is William.” The door unlatched. “Are you all right?”

The door opened a few inches and Duana looked out. She wore a thin chemise, and her hair was loose and wildly, wantonly tousled. Llewelyn raised an eyebrow at Gwilym, and even the sick knight snuck a covert glance.

“I was sleeping.” She smoothed her hair back uncertainly.

“Where are the maids?” Gwilym asked.

“I sent them away.”

Llewelyn cleared his throat. He had one of his knights replace the sick one, and reminded Gwilym tersely, "I will see you at Westminster in the morning. Do not be late." Llewelyn looked at the new guard. “See to it Lord Gwilym does not oversleep or forget.”

Gwilym slipped into the sitting room. Duana bolted the door behind him. He noted an ugly red mark on her cheekbone. “What happened to your face?”

She hesitated. "I- I fell. Against the table. I knocked your sword to the floor. I am sorry." 

He glanced down at his great-grandfather’s sword. "It looks to be in one piece, but I am not sure about you.” He raised his hand, but she flinched back. “Easy.” He touched her chin and tilted her face toward the torches on the wall. "Did you faint or trip?”

“I do not know,” she said in a little voice.

He let go of her chin. “Are you ill? The two knights at the door are ill.” 

“No, I am not ill.”

He paused. “You cannot possibly be with child, can you?”

She shook her head. 

He scrutinized her face again. "I am getting a doctor." 

"No!" In a calmer voice, she insisted, “I am tired. Frightened. I do not like this place, and I had hoped you would return earlier. I do not like being here alone. Come, tell me of Prince Llewelyn’s son as you bathe.” 

Gwilym eyed her for a few more seconds, but relented. She did not seem ill. She appeared shaken to her core, which Gwilym fully understood. He followed her to the bedchamber and began the laborious process of taking off his armor. "We saw him. Llewelyn brought him clothes and...” He swallowed and said, “I think Gruffydd’s mind is broken, Cariad. Forever broken. He has lived too long in that cell waiting to die. Even if King Henry lets him out, Gruffydd will never be able to rule Wales." 

“Are you certain?”

“He seems hollow. Gruffydd knows his father and me, but little else. It is horrible. I should be thankful Dafydd is dead, Llewelyn says. Llewel should shut his damn mouth, I say. But regardless... I do not know what Llewel will do. Damn it.” He fumbled with the leather strap under his arm. He wanted free of this stupid armor, and he considered cutting the strap.

"Come. I will unbuckle and untie you," Duana offered. “What of the son you want Eimile to marry?”

He abandoned any pretense about his right hand being as dexterous as it once was. He let her unfastened his breastplate, belt, and the drawstring on his breeches and his braies. He could manage it, but she could do it quicker. She finished, and kissed his shoulder before she lay down on the bed.

Gwilym shucked off his clothing and stepped into the warm, wonderful tub of water. "Rhys came after Llewel married Joanna; Gruffydd came years before,” he told Duana, who lay on her side and watched him bathe by candlelight. “Both are Tang's sons, but Normans hear 'mistress' and think 'bastard,' hear 'hearth wife' and think 'legitimate.' Wales has become too Norman to be ruled by a bastard son. At least, by this bastard son. Rhys is a kind, affable boy. I think he will be a good lord and father and husband, but not a prince. Not in Wales, and I have told Llewelyn so. Even if Rhys had the temperament, he is a second son; no one has taught him how to wield power or lead men. He is ten. What would your Count of Pembroke say, Cariad? Could he teach a gentle boy of ten to be a warrior-prince, because I do not think I can." 

"His name was Walter, William. You can call him Walter." 

"What did you call him?" 

Duana lay quiet for a moment. "For the longest time, I called him 'Sir.' I was so frightened I kept forgetting his titles. I knew ten French words, and that was one: monsieur. After I had been in Pembrokeshire a month, he told me it seemed pretentious to call him 'The Count Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Leicester' as he lay in bed and I changed his bandages. He said once he could walk again, I could call him that, but temporarily, I should find another name for him. If I would bring him parchment, ink, and a quill, he would show me how to write down and read his name so I could remember it."

Gwilym listened so intently to her story he forgot to wash but also momentarily what his first question had been. 

"He would say ten is too old, William. Walter believed kings are ordained by God but honed by man, and a ten-year-old will never think like a king. That was the problem with King John, Walter said, but do not repeat that. Henry Plantagenet expected one of his older sons to rule so John, years younger, was spoiled and forgotten. All his older sons died, leaving John Lackland. How could my husband teach a grown man to be a king? King John loved power but never the responsibility that came with it."

"I swear by Christ’s bones, you do pay attention, Duana."

"I have attended to a few brilliant men," she said. "Tell me of Fitz." 

"What of Marshal FitzWalter, Cariad? Aside from his adoration of you?" 

"What sort of man has he grown to be?" 

Gwilym considered as he scrubbed. "A good man, I thought. Honorable. Bright. Lonely. He hates me but he was tolerant, even polite, to Llewelyn.  
FitzWalter wields power well, but he does not relish it. He merely wants to do what he believes is right. He is quite the noble knight, but he does not realize our world is not a noble place. I would say his father - your Walter - was a great man, and FitzWalter tries to be his father instead of himself."

Duana remained quiet so long Gwilym assumed she fell asleep. He finished bathing, he blew out the candles, snuffed the torches, and slid naked under the blankets of the elaborate bed. Duana rolled so they lay face to face, though he could not see her clearly in the darkness. He touched her cheek carefully. “Are you truly fine?” he asked again. “Not your usual vague ‘fine?’”

“I-” She traced her cool finger across his bare chest. “I will be fine. I want to go home.”

“I know. But you cannot be with child?” He worried at her fainting but also at her sleepiness afterward. “Because I did not...” Embarrassed, he said instead, “Because I succumbed to other temptations.”

“Regardless, my flux just passed. It does not work that way.”

“How does it work?” If she would not tell him how to avoid conceiving a child, perhaps she would tell him how best to create one, and he could do the opposite. “I told FitzWalter the truth; I want another son to try to name. I am not nineteen, and I do not want to find myself with Llewelyn’s dilemma. How can I ensure you conceive another son?”

She did not answer immediately, and he thought she would not. There remained coitus interruptus, and the jasper stones he kept picking up and Duana kept finding and throwing away. Or feigning sleep. And, if FitzWalter had him burned or beheaded as a traitor, dead men fathered no babies. As Gwilym considered the options, Duana said, “Most babies are conceived a week or so after a woman's flux comes, and if seed reaches the woman’s womb. Even when it was time, I cannot promise. It is soon and, last year, until the bonfires...” She trailed off, though he could have read her thoughts. “Nor can I promise another son.”

“I understand.” 

“We could go back,” she offered in a secret voice. “In May. To the bonfires.”

Gwilym did not answer. He stroked her shoulder and, after a time, told her something true. “I hear him, Cariad. In my mind. Dafydd. Running through these halls, calling for me from the darkest corners beneath The Tower. I would thank God to see him one last time, even beaten and broken, with his mind unhinged. I am so jealous of Llewelyn I want to beat him bloody.”

He heard the ribbons slide as she untied the neck of her chemise. “Empty your mind,” she offered. “I cannot promise you another son tonight, but at least empty your mind of the one you have lost.” Her hand caressed his shoulder, touching him as if he was precious. “Tell me what you want. Anything.” Her lips touched his, and he felt her fingertips travel down his arm, across his abdomen, and down the line of dark hair, stroking. He inhaled and pressed into her hand. As his erection grew, her touch remained light – painfully, pleasurably delicate. “On my hands and knees?”

“You said ‘even when it is time.’ You cannot conceive tonight?”

“It does not matter.” 

“It will hurt,” he said. “I will hurt you for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.” Her hand on his cock continued to move. “Tell me what you want.”

“You know my favorite sin, as of late. Say the Latin word again.” 

“Fellatus,” she whispered. “Fello.”

“To suck,” he translated appreciatively. “Quod fellas,” he figured. “You suck.” As if changing tactics, he observed, “But your face is bruised, and I am the barbarian in a queen’s bed. Should you not tell me what you want, my lady?” He found her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it chivalrously as Marshal FitzWalter had earlier. “I doubt this is the first time these walls have seen a Celt invited to pleasure a Norman noblewoman.”

“Do you think that truly happens?”

“A visiting warlord’s seed gets passed off as a nobleman’s son? This is London Court. We lay in the center of a web of spyholes and sin and secrets. It would be foolish to think otherwise.”

“Have you ever been invited?” Duana said in the same quiet voice.

“To a noblewoman’s bed? I have. But by a beautiful countess, at London Court?” He shook his head. “Never.”

“What would you do, if you received such an invitation, Lord William?” she asked softly.

“I would risk my neck and accept it gratefully. I would see the noblewoman who issued it woke with a smile and a secret little wince as she sat at breakfast the next day. And carrying a son or not, as was her wish.”

“It is,” she whispered, “my wish.”

The awful images stalking Gwilym’s mind retreated to the dark corners. He kissed everywhere Duana was not bruised: her breasts, her neck, the delicate bones of her shoulders and wrists. Duana’s lips passed down his cheekbones, and teased his earlobes, and her fingers slid up the back of his scalp, through his hair. He felt the soft warmth of her sex beneath her chemise, against his erection. He eased up the hem. One last time, Gwilym thought. Perhaps tonight was the last time he would be with her. He had fought and bled over so many things he once thought mattered, but... She mattered. She had held his head as he cried, and plotted high treason with him, and carried his blood inside her body, and – even since the first night she arrived in Aber - a piece of his soul would forever belong to and with her.

Gwilym opened his eyes and found Duana watching him. Despite her familiar lover’s touch, she seemed fragile and vulnerable, as she had early in their marriage.

“Does your husband hit you?” he asked gently. “Is that what happened to your face, my lady?”

After a second, her head nodded in the darkness.

“What did you do? Were you impertinent?”

In that unnervingly little voice, she answered, “He wants another son. He is most... Most insistent about it, but I am not with child. Again.”

“I know a way to remedy that,” Gwilym assured her, and touched the opening between her legs. “We barbarians know creating a son requires a woman’s pleasure. We barbarians know many things, my lady.”

She inhaled and shifted her hips as he touched her. “Will it hurt?” 

Duana asked so earnestly an unpleasant wave passed through Gwilym’s abdomen. He continued touching her, but said, “There is such a thing as being too convincing an actress tonight, Cariad.”

Her fingers slid through his hair again. “Show me what you know, Welshman,” Duana instructed, in a voice suited to either lovemaking or instructing a servant. “Give me something to remember the next time my husband sends for me. As I lay there with my legs open for some rich, powerful nobleman, watching the bed canopy and praying for him to finish, give me something to think about.”

The knot in his gut untied itself. He kissed her again, slipped his fingers inside her, and felt her convulse against him. The world outside the ornate bed, with its velvet bed curtains, fell from his mind. As Gwilym moved down her body, leaving a trail of kisses behind him, he asked, “Is there a word it? For a man to love a woman with his mouth?”

In the darkness, Duana shook her head she did not know.

“Lay back, my lady. See if you can think of one.”

*~*~*~*

As Duana slept, Gwilym had time to calculate. He counted up two and forty ways he knew to kill a man. Burn, behead, disembowel, crush, draw and quarter, hang. He could drown a man, strangle him, and put a knife through an eye socket. He had favorites, of course. A quick, hard twist breaking the neck. Slit the throat. Use a dagger, a sword, an arrow, a club. He organized the methods in his mind, first from least to most painful, from fastest to slowest. Banal to exotic. Neatest to messiest, even.

Gwilym had looked at Duana’s face earlier by candlelight, but once the sun rose, he folded down the blankets and checked the rest of her body. Duana’s chemise remained on the other side of the bed, where it landed late the previous night. He found no fingermarks on Duana’s wrists, or bruises anywhere except her face. No bite or grab marks, no scratches. But a knife held near her throat would not leave a mark. A woman knocked unconscious did not resist. Last night, he had not smelled or – and the thought repelled him – tasted evidence she had been raped. But she had bathed. Still, a slight, fair-skinned woman who recently gave birth... Gwilym had to be gentle. Slow, even with her atop him. 

Gwilym had believed every word of her ruse. If Duana had peddled drawings of amber fish, Gwilym would have purchased a stack.

He heard someone try the apartment door and find it still bolted. A maid likely tried to bring breakfast. Gwilym did not want breakfast. He wanted blood.

Duana shifted but still did not wake. Gwilym covered her with the blanket again. He had washed and dressed, so he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her with his jaw clenched so hard his temples throbbed. He tried to imagine who in London Court would want to harm Duana, but he had no idea even where to begin.

He would start by cutting off the man’s fingers. Cock. Tongue. Cut out an eye. Having reviewed the options, Gwilym formulated a plan of death beginning with a small, dull knife, including a hot poker, and ending with burning at the stake with a smokeless fire. Or a bronze bull. The Romans roasted Saint Eustace to death over a fire inside a hollow bronze bull.

Gwilym considered where in London he might buy or borrow a hollow bronze bull. 

Duana opened her eyes, though one eye opened far more than the other. She blinked at him sleepily as he loomed over her. "Did the table grow fingers, you little liar?" Gwilym demanded. "Rings?" 

She shifted her shoulders and stretched her arms upward. "William? What is-" She winced and put her hand to her face. “Ah,” she moaned. The red mark from the previous night had turned purple and black, and bore the imprint of knuckles and a ring.

"Who hit you?" he yelled. "Damn it, Duana! How could you lie to me? Someone poisoned the guards, and came in here, and struck you! Who did this? Why? What happened? I swear to God I will-" 

She sat up, winced again, and pushed her wild hair back from her face. "What, William? What will you do? Start hanging men as you please?"

"Hanging is too quick." 

"This is not Wales; you will end up in The Tower or dangling from a rope yourself. Will you challenge a man younger and quicker with a sword and get yourself killed? It is a bruise,” she said angrily. “Nothing more. I will live, and I prefer you live as well." 

She reached for her chemise and started to get up. He pushed back her down on the mattress, so livid he struggled to breathe. "You are my wife. I am your lord and protector and- Goddamn it!" He picked up a knickknack from the table beside the bed and threw it at the hearth. It shattered against the stones in a satisfactory manner. "How dare you lie to me!" 

Duana covered her face and turned away from him, as if hiding the bruise. A tear streamed down her cheek. 

"Damn it," Gwilym repeated in a strangled voice. "Tell me what happened. Who did this?" 

She shook her head. "I will stay here. No one will think you struck me. No one will even see me." 

"Piss on people seeing you. I will drag you up on the King's dais and demand to know if you do not tell me." 

Her head continued to shake. Her shoulders began to tremble. 

He started toward her, but stopped, getting his temper in check. As much as he wanted to grab her and shake the truth out of her, he doubted trying would do any good. Instead, he took a slow breath and informed her, "I must go swear homage to the damn brat-King. Do not leave this room or open the door until I return."

Duana did not look up, but the top of her head nodded. She huddled like a naked, miserable little island in an ocean of expensive bedcovers. 

Gwilym turned and stalked out, slamming the bedchamber door behind him. "Get up and bar the door!" he yelled, and heard her footsteps hurry across the stone floor and the bolt slide into place. 

As blood pounded in his ears, Gwilym picked up his sword. He sheathed it, and unbolted and jerked open the door to the hallway. 

One of Llewelyn's knights fell in step behind him – the young man who had been unwell the previous evening. 

"Stay with my wife,” Gwilym ordered. “I do not care if you vomit on your boots, I do not care if you bleed from your ears. If you let a soul in that door or let her out before I get back, you answer to me, not Llewelyn this time."

"You do not want an escort to Westminster? Prince Llewelyn said to escort you to Westminster and see you arrived on time." The knight trotted after him. "What if there is trouble? What if someone sees you are Welsh and-" 

Gwilym spun around with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The young knight stopped in his tracks. Quite wisely, the guard returned to the apartment door and resumed his post. 

*~*~*~* 

Llewelyn stood outside Westminster, cursing his bad luck. The winter sun, unseen for months, chose that morning to shine brightly. Three worried-looking Welsh knights accompanied Llewelyn as he waited. And waited. 

He did not question Gwilym’s fealty, but Gwilym abided by his own rules. Gwil might humbly come to Welsh Court to pay homage to Llewelyn on New Year’s Day. Or, at least, he came once. More likely Gwil would decide to go hunting (in Llewelyn’s woods) or remain with Duana, and appear with his knights and foot soldiers before the next battle. Gwilym did not lose at chess and he did not lose wars. And he never failed – Wales or Llewelyn. Given the debts he owed Gwil, Llewelyn could overlook his friend’s distain for ceremony.

It would not do to ignore the King’s summons, even though they both had sons older than the new King. 

Llewelyn’s head pounded and his eyes stung. The knuckles of his right hand were raw, though he did not recall who or what he struck. Thanks to his knights, Llewelyn looked the part of a nobleman – albeit a hung-over one – but he last remembered Gwil banging on Duana’s barred door. After that, there was beer. Brandywine.

Llewelyn waited. The royal servant at the church door looked at Llewelyn scornfully. The sun’s cruel rays warmed the city, creating an aroma making Llewelyn’s stomach turn.

He spotted Gwilym riding toward Westminster, at least looking hurried. Instead of apologizing for his tardiness, Gwilym greeted the Prince of Wales with, "Christ, Llewel. Did you spend last night soaking your sorrows in a barrel of beer again?" Gwilym swung down from his saddle. He sniffed Llewelyn. "And dipping your wick in the London wares?”

“Piss on you, Gwil,” Llewelyn said angrily. “You saw my son.”

"I did; he looked to be drawing breath," Gwilym shot back, as if eager to pick a fight. “I have a tomb you may visit, if you want to grieve.”

“You are an ass.”

“You are a drunk,” Gwilym countered. “A drunk who smells like a Southwark brothel."

“I can sober up and bathe,” Llewelyn pointed out, “but you will remain an ass.”

“Aw-” Gwilym nodded as if appreciative. “That is quite witty and imaginative for you, Llewel. Kissing the boy-King’s ass brings out the best in you.”

"Let us get this over with." He signaled the doorman. 

"I need to speak with you after. About my wife." 

"What of her?” Llewelyn asked, but the doors to Westminster opened and the doorman announced their names to the King. 

Gwilym and Llewelyn approached the dais as commanded and waited for the King - a slim, dark-haired boy of ten or so - to acknowledge them. A few feet to Henry's right stood FitzWalter, acting as regent, high council, Kingmaker. In reality, Marshal FitzWalter ruled England. 

"Your majesty, Prince Llewelyn of Wales and William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. You requested Lord William pay homage to you," FitzWalter supplied for the boy, who nodded.

"Thluh-heln. Lew-helen. Louiselen," the boy tried. "Thuh-hu-welin?" He glanced at FitzWalter, who mouthed 'Llewelyn' again. "How is my sister Joanna, Llewelyn?"

The Prince of Wales shifted uncomfortably. "She is well, your majesty." 

"Lord William," Henry said next, looking at Gwilym, "You have married the Count of Pembroke's widow, yes? The Countess has become the Lady of Gwynedd?" 

"She is- Oui." Gwilym remembered he must speak French in addition to understanding it. 

"I am told the Countess is well.”

“Oui,” Gwilym repeated.

Henry asked another question about Duana, but Gwilym did not understand. He looked to Llewelyn, who translated, “Family. Echen. He asks if you have a family with Lady Duana.”

Gwilym nodded and answered in what he hoped was comprehensible French, “Lady Duana and I have a daughter, Eimile, and a new son.” 

He felt foolish discussing this with a boy who should be out playing crusader and searching for dragons instead of sitting on a throne. The idea Eimile, Dafydd, Princess Joanna, and this King Henry shared a father was unsettling. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Eimile and the boy King, though.

Henry spoke quickly in French, but FitzWalter shook his head. "His name?" Henry asked simply. "What is your son's name?" 

"We have not chosen a given name, your majesty. He is 'ap Gwilym of Aber,' but we call him 'Mab.' It means 'the male child of,' like 'Fitz." 

"David is a good Welsh name. A saint's name," Henry said. "David, son of William of Aber. That sounds nice. Mark that down," he ordered the scribe, who scribbled obediently. 

FitzWalter said, "Your majesty-" 

"David is the patron saint of Wales, Fitz!" Henry protested. "He has not yet named his son, and I have helped him." 

Gwilym opened his mouth, but Llewelyn gave him a none-too-subtle nudge. 

"Lord William had a baseborn son named David." FitzWalter prompted Henry. "Remember? We spoke of it this morning." 

"So he has a bastard son and a legitimate son sharing the same name. How many bastards named ‘Henry’ did my father have?" 

One too many, Gwilym thought, but managed not to say. He should be congratulated on his restraint this trip to London.

"It is a Norman custom: naming sons alike," Henry replied. "You also said this morning Lord William could use a little Norman civilizing if he planned to stay married to Countess Duana. Fitz, I do not understand you sometimes. Lord William, is your wife with you?" 

"Yes... Your majesty," he remembered to add. Gwilym could call Mab whatever he wanted, but in London and for posterity, the young lord of Gwynedd would be 'Dafydd.' He found poetic justice in that. 

"Swear your oath and let us go see her. This is all I have to do this morning, yes, Fitz? After the Welshmen, I can go play, right?" 

FitzWalter nodded. 

"She is unwell this morning," Gwilym said quickly. 

"You will not interrupt me! You will not argue with me! I am the King! I want to see the Countess and you will take me to her!" Henry yelled at Gwilym. 

"You need your ass warmed until you can learn some respect, King or no!" Gwilym barked back - luckily in Welsh, and luckily in the almost-empty hall of Westminster. Few nobles were at Court in winter, though Llewelyn looked dully horrified. Gwilym swallowed and answered politely in French, "Of course. My wife speaks fondly of you, your majesty. She recalls you as a boy." 

Henry puffed up a bit. "Swear, and I have a prop- a prop- I have an offer for you and Prince Lu-helen. Do you want my scribe to read the oath?" 

Gwilym shook his head. He knelt and recited. "By the Lord God, I will be to King Henry faithful and true, and love all he loves and shun all he shuns, according to God's law and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by force, by word or by work, do ought of what is hateful to him; and on condition he keep me as I am and willing to deserve, I, Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, swear fealty and service." 

There. It was done. As Duana would say, the world had not ended. 

"That is much to remember, especially if you do not speak French well," Henry said in awe. "Oaths and the Roman Kings - Caesars: those are most difficult." 

Gwilym's mouth twitched. He reminded himself of Duana’s words: his oath was to the Crown, not to this child. In fact, if the boy had not had possessed the power to burn Gwilym alive on a whim, Gwilym would have liked him.

Llewelyn's knelt and efficiently sore an oath of faithfulness and service. Henry nodded, and Llewelyn rose. Llewelyn stood waiting beside Gwilym.

FitzWalter cleared his throat and mouthed, “Proposition.” 

"Yes, the prop-po-sition." Henry's forehead wrinkled. "Wales and Dover and France and the Welsh boy in The Tower. Fitz, I do not remember. May I go play?"

FitzWalter shook his head but took over for Henry. "First, Prince Llewelyn, the King will conditionally release your son. Wales has been loyal for a year, and the King believes you have learned your lesson. The sentence of execution is repealed and you, if you agree, may stay in London with him until the King gives you leave to return to Wales. Or you may return for him later. Regardless, he will be released from The Tower."

"Thank you, your majesty." Llewelyn remembered to address Henry instead of FitzWalter. Henry busily tried to scratch an itch deep in his ear and did not seem to notice.

"But," FitzWalter continued, "the Welsh cannot have nothing else to do except think up ways to rebel against England. The lands that should have passed to Countess- To Lady Duana, the King will restore Pembrokeshire to her on the condition Lord William can rid England of the Frenchmen in Kent and Dover. If you figure a way for the Crown to take back Dover, William, the King will give you the lands in south Wales as her dowry. As your liege lord, Llewelyn would hold all of north and south Wales." 

"You cannot manage to keep peace in the south anyway," Llewelyn said. “Not and run England at the same time.”

"True," FitzWalter replied. "The King does not have money to continue fighting the French in south Wales, so he will give it to you and let you deal it. As long as Wales is loyal to you and you are loyal to the Crown, it is a good trade. He cannot fight wars against every country around him. Lord William is said to be quite the military strategist; if he can get the French out of England - which is no small task - the Crown does not have to worry about Wales or France." 

"The west and south coasts of England would be secure," Gwilym said. "Leaving-"

"Leaving only Ireland and Scotland in rebellion," FitzWalter finished for him. "In addition to your army, the King will supply you with knights and ships and whatever else you need. If your army fights more than forty days, the Crown will pay you for it," he said. "There is no catch, William; it is a bona fide offer. The new King of England is a boy. He needs as little war and, in truth, as little expense as possible for the next few years. We cannot have the French army camped ten miles outside of London." 

"There is always a catch. I have received gifts from the King before," Gwilym responded. 

Llewelyn nudged Gwilym with his shoulder.

"I am not-” Fitzwalter corrected himself again. “The King is not a fool. I will not put the entire English Army at the disposal of a Welshmen without accompanying you, William. Duana will stay at Court in case you decide England needs liberated from the Normans as well as the French. Your first son was not a powerful enough incentive to keep you in line, but I think Duana’s dowry would be." 

Gwilym decided. "No."

"Duana stays as a royal guest. She was the Countess of Pembroke and my stepmother; I will see she is treated properly. You have my word." 

"I have also had the King's word before, thank you."

"Gwil-" Llewelyn hissed at him. "All of Wales, damn it. My son. Yes, Lord William accepts your offer." Llewelyn answered FitzWalter, forgetting about Henry.

"We have two babies in Wales. He cannot protect her. Someone came into her apartment last night and attacked her! Struck her!" Gwilym argued in stilted French.

"Who struck her?" FitzWalter demanded. "Did you see? 

"If I saw, I would not be pissing around and discussing it with you; the man who struck her would be dead."

FitzWalter shook his head; he had not understood Gwilym, but he scowled unhappily. He called for a knight and, leaning close, issued a low, tense order.

Llewelyn looked equally angry. "Is that what was wrong with her? What happened?"

"Duana will not say, and I cannot find out or protect her because I am here paying homage to the boy-King with you," Gwilym reminded him angrily. "I swear I will butcher whomever you and the Norman King deem the enemy. May I go to my wife?" he demanded in Welsh. 

Llewelyn sighed unhappily, but FitzWalter still conferred with his knight. Turning back to the Welshmen, FitzWalter said, "I mean it, Lord William, Prince Llewelyn. On my honor, she will be safe. Henry!" The King looked up from a bug he watched. "You are finished. You may go see the Lady of Gwynedd. We will accompany you." 

"Who?" Henry asked. 

"My father's wife," FitzWalter answered impatiently. 

"Oh!" The boy scrambled down from the dais. "Do you think Countess Duana will have plums? I would like a plum." 

*~*~*~* 

“Where are my knights?” FitzWalter asked angrily. “I ordered two men at this door at all hours.”

One of the royal knights accompanying FitzWalter said he did not know but would investigate at once. He would station new men at her ladyship’s door.

Llewelyn would have rolled his eyes, but it hurt. Gwilym’s attention was focused elsewhere.

One knight guarded the apartment door: the young Welshmen who stood so straight at attention he probably grew a few inches taller. Beside him, a row of servants stood along the wall. A ladies’ maid held a basin of steaming water and another a tray of food covered with a thin linen cloth. Two other maids and a manservant stood in the hall, waiting. 

Gwilym pointed to the tray of food the woman held. “What is this?”

"Breakfast, my lord," the guard barked.

"Breakfast? My wife cannot eat food on this side of the door. Are you still ill or perpetually stupid?" 

The young knight blinked. "I have let no one past this door, my lord. As you ordered. Not in or out. Not a soul." 

"I did not mean the maid, you idiot!” Gwilym exploded. “Why would you think I would order you not to let my wife eat? Do I look like a Norman to you?"

Gwilym had his sword out of the sheath. Llewelyn grabbed his arm and ordered him to stop. Old King John starved a few prisoners to death; if FitzWalter understood enough Welsh to realize Gwilym spoke about Normans starving women, there could be trouble. 

"I am going to kill someone soon, and I am several months out of practice with executions,” Gwilym informed Llewelyn angrily. “I think I will warm up on this fool knight of yours!" 

"Gwil! Stop it!" Llewelyn demanded, but suggested to his knight, "I would get out of his sight, boy - and mine, as well. Go back to your father in Wales and tell him you may return to my service once you have the sense of a man, not just the age of one."

No one needed to tell him twice. The guard hurried down the hallway, but glancing back at Lord Gwilym, broke into a trot in his haste. 

*~*~*~* 

Llewelyn brought his hand too quickly toward Duana's face. She flinched and without thinking, Gwilym reached for his sword. FitzWalter stepped forward threateningly; the royal knights with him moved to stop Llewelyn. The Welsh knights drew their swords to protect Prince Llewelyn from FitzWalter's guards. For a few seconds, a tense standoff existed between Wales and England. 

Duana continued to sit on the sofa and stare at the floor. Her hands clutched the fabric of her skirt, and below the elaborate embroidered hem of her skirt, her ankles crossed tightly. 

Gwilym reminded Llewelyn through his teeth to, "Take care," as the Prince surveyed the mark on her cheek.

FitzWalter nodded in agreement. Gwilym exhaled and folded his arms as he stood near Duana. Nearby, FitzWalter crossed his arms across his chest as well and shifted his feet restlessly. The Welsh knights and English knights glared at each other. 

The King of England sat beside Duana, swinging his feet happily despite the lack of plums. 

Without touching her, Llewelyn gestured for Duana to tilt her head and pull back her veil to show the whole bruise. With each passing hour, the mark darkened and swelled until it hurt to even look at it.

Llewelyn nodded. "That is from a man’s fist.” Unsteady on his feet, he squatted down so he and Duana were eye-to-eye. She looked at him uncertainly. He asked gently in French, “Who hit you, Duana. What happened? Did someone force you?”

"I do not think so. There are no marks on her," Gwilym said. 

FitzWalter looked from Duana to the huge, unmade bed in the next room, and to Gwilym. His stern expression did not change but he shifted his feet again.

Llewelyn stood. "Who struck you?" 

"She will not say," Gwilym reminded him. 

"She is your wife. Make her say, Gwil." 

"Llewelyn, this is Lady Duana," Gwilym said sarcastically. "Cariad: Prince Llewelyn of Wales. Obviously, you have not met my ever-docile wife, Llewel." 

Trying a different tactic, Llewelyn ordered Duana, "You will answer your lord husband or suffer the consequences."

Gwilym smirked. "You want me to hit her until she confesses who has hit her? This is why I plan the battles, Llewel."

The Prince of Wales glared at Gwilym. His head pounded, and there remained the matter of getting his son out of a cage in The Tower. “I will hit you until she confesses, Gwil, and hurry this miserable morning along.”

"Enough." FitzWalter stepped forward. "I will deal with this."

“William.” Duana spoke for the first time since she opened the door and found the servants, three noblemen, the boy-King, and a collection of armored royal and Welsh guards in the hallway. Gwilym turned toward her, thinking she wanted him, but she added softly, “My husband hit me. He wants another son, but I am not with child. I was impertinent and he hit me.”

Gwilym held up his unblemished hands, loudly protesting his innocence. Gwilym wore a ring, but not the one that made the mark on Duana’s face. Nor was it sensible Gwilym would hit his wife, but complain of it to Llewelyn and the King. FitzWalter did not question who struck Duana, only what other harm had come to her and how she managed to escape.

As soon as William finished speaking, FitzWalter said, “That is not the truth, Duana.”

She resumed watching the rug.

Fitz said, “I do not know how Edward got in the castle or past my guards-”

Gwilym's chin shot up. "Edward?" 

"Please, Fitz," Duana pleaded. 

"Edward is my stepbrother. He is- He is not sane. He is possessed. My father's stepson by his first wife; there is no blood between us. My men discovered him in the castle last night. He must have bribed his way in. I had him detained because I knew he would try to get to Duana. I did not realize-" FitzWalter worried his lower lip. “I will speak to Duana alone.”

Before Gwilym could string the French phrase together in his mind, Llewelyn had said it firmly: “No, you will not.” 

“Duana?” FitzWalter asked the top of her head. “Duana, this time Edward will die if I have to kill him myself. In fact, I would be pleased to kill him myself.”

King Henry looked up. "That is not the law," he reminded FitzWalter helpfully, and was ignored.

Footsteps approached in the hall. The apartment door opened. Two royal guards escorted in a dark-haired man a few fingers shorter than Gwilym. The man wore the uniform of a royal knight and the expression of a dead fish.

"I did nothing to her, FitzWalter," Edward insisted, though no one had yet accused him. "I give you my word, brother." 

FitzWalter stepped toward him. "Your word will hold no more water than a sieve, brother." 

"It is still my word. My word against a Welshman's." A hint of a serpent’s smile appeared. “Our pretty stepmother invited me in while her husband was away. FitzWalter, are you jealous you never get such a nice invitation?”

FitzWalter’s jaw broadened. “You will mind your tongue or I will cut it out.” 

Edward opened his mouth and made a vulgar licking gesture at FitzWalter. The Kingmaker hit Edward so hard Edward’s nose made a crunching sound. The royal knights holding Edward yanked him to his feet as blood poured down his face.

“Enough!” FitzWalter repeated angrily. He took a few breaths. He squatted down near Duana, as Llewelyn had. “Duana-” He spoke quietly and stayed several feet from her. “-he will not harm you again. Tell me what happened.”

She looked up, from Edward to FitzWalter. “I thought he was William. Edward said he was a friend of the King. That he would see William died if I did not do what he wanted.”

FitzWalter’s face paled. Behind the sofa, Gwilym watched Edward the way a big cat focused on prey.

“He is no friend of mine.” Henry spoke up earnestly. “He is a madman.”

The muscles of FitzWalter’s neck moved as he swallowed. “Did you– Did you do what he wanted?”

She shook her head. “William had left his sword. I picked it up and made Ed leave.”

The corners of FitzWalter’s mouth twitched. “Good girl.” 

Llewelyn watched Edward as steadily as he could manage, biding his time. Gwilym paced behind Duana. The Welsh guards kept Gwilym corralled to one end of the sitting room with the sofa and a line of knights between Gwilym and Edward. In front of the looking glass, he paced back and forth, ready to pounce at the first opportunity.

“I will see he is dead before noon,” FitzWalter said.

Young Henry said, “That is not the law. If her husband hit her, it is not our concern. If Edward hit her? If there is no male witness, there is no crime, Fitz." He had been learning law with his tutors last week. 

With his nose still bleeding, Edward grinned in crazy triumph. 

“Lord William, do you want to challenge this Edward?” young King Henry asked eagerly.

Though Henry spoke slowly in French, Gwilym responded angrily in Welsh. His answer took some time and included a dull knife and hollow bronze bull. 

Gwilym finished speaking. Prince Llewelyn translated, “No.” 

“We are done,” Henry announced. “Right, Fitz? You cannot challenge Edward; Duana is no longer your family.”

FitzWalter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Henry must rule according to the Magna Carta. FitzWalter could not teach Henry to be just if FitzWalter put aside the law anytime he pleased. The best plan was to have his men kill Ed in secret, but that would not sit well with the Welshmen.

"You are guilty of trespassing. I am banishing you from England-" was as much as FitzWalter said before Gwilym's face flushed. Llewelyn, anticipating his reaction, grabbed one arm while a Welsh knight held the other.

"You think that is justice, FitzWalter?" Llewelyn said angrily.

"He is a nobleman and it is the law," FitzWalter replied tightly. 

"It is not the law in Wales," Llewelyn argued. “Banish him to Wales and let me deal with him.”

Whatever Gwilym promised as he fought to get at Edward, it likely involved emasculation, followed by death, followed by death again. A second Welsh knight and a royal one, grabbed Gwilym, holding him back. Gwilym switched to French, quickly exhausted his vocabulary of vulgar French insults, and resumed Welsh threats as he struggled to get free.

Duana whispered to Henry to get up from the sofa and move away, as if they played hide and seek. 

"Your French is good, for a bastard Welshman." Edward labored under some delusion Llewelyn could keep Gwilym from killing Ed for long. "You should teach a few words to your pretty Celtic women so they know how to appreciate a Norman soldier's attention." 

The guards, both Welsh and English, focused on Gwilym.

"They do teach us a French phrase." Duana stood, stepped closer to Edward, and said mockingly, "They teach us to ask 'is it in' so we can tell." 

Edward lashed out, hitting Duana and knocking her to the floor. 

"Goddamn you!" Gwilym managed to get one arm free. "Goddamn you- Stop! I will slit your throat, you son-of-a-bitch! Llewel-" 

Llewelyn and his knights went for Edward, but FitzWalter had Ed by the neck and held him against the wall. FitzWalter started to squeeze the life out of Edward before he realized Henry watched, frightened. Heart pounding, FitzWalter stepped back. The royal guards seized Edward. 

Duana lay on the floor surrounded by the rich fabric of her dress, seeming dazed. Gwilym gathered her up and held her against him as he sat on the rug. Llewelyn, kneeling close to Duana, passed a handkerchief to Gwilym. Gwilym’s hand shook as he held the cloth against her bleeding nose. FitzWalter loomed over the three of them.

“Back,” Gwilym ordered. Both the Kingmaker and the Prince of Wales moved back. FitzWalter wiped off his bloody hand on his red tunic.

Duana remained limp.

"Dead man," Gwilym promised Edward. Beside him Llewelyn nodded in agreement. If FitzWalter did not have the stones to execute this man, they would hunt Edward down as soon as he left London.

"He is a dead man," FitzWalter said, but his voice shook. With all the men and power at his disposal, he had not prevented Edward from hurting Duana, even with FitzWalter in the same room. He cleared his throat. “He is a dead man. We have a dozen witnesses. Henry, what is the penalty for striking another man's wife?"

"Prison." Henry twisted his fingers together. He saw his father strike his mother Isabelle many times, and it made his stomach hurt. FitzWalter had married to Henry's mother; they quarreled but FitzWalter did not hit her. Fitz did not like Mother, though. Fitz did not say it but Henry knew. Henry wondered if all wives were irritating and quarrelsome. He never saw Walter Marshal hurt Countess Duana, though. The Count and Countess were nice to each other, and Henry had liked staying in Pembroke Castle much better than living with Mother and Father. 

"If he tried to rape a noblewoman?" FitzWalter asked. "What is the penalty?"

"Death." Henry made himself a small target in a chair in the corner. "Was he going to rape her, Fitz?" He asked hesitantly, not sure exactly what that entailed.

FitzWalter nodded and ordered the guards to take Edward to The Tower. 

"Wait." Henry remembered something. "Did she insult him? It is not a crime of she insults his manhood. Did she do that?" He glanced at Duana, who remained a crumple of lush silk and velvet on Gwilym’s lap. Gwilym lifted the cloth to see if her nose had stopped bleeding. It had not. 

Prince Llewelyn sucked in his breath disapprovingly. 

FitzWalter looked from Duana to Edward's defiant expression and back to Henry. "No, she did not insult him." 

"Good. Well, he can be executed," Henry said happily. "Take him away."

*~*~*~* 

Afternoon dragged into early evening and still Duana slept. For a time, Gwilym opened the sitting room window and looked across the frozen, darkening city. From the apartment he saw the shadows crawling over London. Londinium, the Romans called the city, and built the first walls to keep out the Saxon’s soldiers and boats. From The Tower, stone fortifications twenty feet high and eight feet thick followed the icy Thames west to Ludgate and Newgate. They ran north before circling back to Bishopsgate and Aldgate. The city’s seven gates allowed passage in and out, but each stout gate was closed and barred, and the portcullis lowered at dusk. The three miles of stone and mortar walls were old when the Vandals sacked Rome and ancient as William the Conqueror arrived from France. In more than a thousand years, the city of London never fell during a siege.

The city would not fall. Gwilym bet his life – and Duana’s life – on it.

He returned to the table and his maps and lists, but heard Duana stir in the bed chamber. After a few moments, her silhouette appeared in the doorway in a chemise. Her hair tried to escape its braid, and a darkening bruise on her jaw crept up to meet the black and purple one at her cheekbone. 

Again, Gwilym wished he knew a way to kill a man more than once.

Duana avoided meeting his eyes. Tension wove through the room the way fog flowed from a riverbank.

“You are not in my good graces,” he said as she made her way unsteadily to the sofa. “I would have dealt with Edward. I do not like that you did not trust me. I am your husband, yet you trusted FitzWalter.”

“As you trusted me to know my name was on the summons?” She moved her mouth as little as possible. She put a cushion beneath her non-bruised cheek and lay down on the sofa. “Is Edward-”

“Dead? Very,” Gwilym responded flippantly. “FitzWalter had Edward beheaded by noon, and his handsome head decorates Bishopsgate. I told Count Marshal FitzWalter that showed a lack of imagination. But FitzWalter is the Kingmaker, and he insisted on beheading.” Gwilym looked up from a map. “Also, nowhere in London is there a hollow bronze bull large enough to roast a man alive inside.”

“Yet another reason to go home,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes.

He watched her: the bruises on her pretty face, the roundness of her hips and breasts beneath the thin fabric. Every instinct told him not to leave her, but he had no choice. He must leave her in order to protect her, he told himself, as he had left the children. 

Despite the warm hearth, Gwilym felt as if cold mist settled over him.

“There is soup,” he offered, not able to think of anything else to say. “I did not think you would want to chew.”

Duana opened her eyes, looked briefly at the tray on the edge of the table, and closed her eyes again disinterestedly. “Fitz would not have let Edward live, William; he did not want to admit that in front of Henry. If you had killed Edward in front of King Henry, though, you would be in The Tower or that would be your head decorating a city gate."

Again with FitzWalter, Gwilym thought. He made a noncommittal but disapproving noise in the back of his throat, and said nothing. He shuffled papers and rolled and unrolled maps for a while, and Duana dozed.

Ten minutes later, she opened her eyes again.

“FitzWalter found the royal knights he assigned to guard you,” he said this time. “Edward must have been charismatic. He convinced them you had moved to another apartment. FitzWalter’s men have been diligently guarding some pretty Scottish noblewoman in the wrong hallway. FitzWalter was shocked. It troubles me a single lunatic outmaneuvered the most powerful nobleman in England.”

She looked pensive. “Fitz is not evil and so he does not think like an evil man. Walter worried that was one of Fitz’s weaknesses; he cannot anticipate what a truly desperate, evil man will do.”

“But I can,” Gwilym said irritably. “I am well-acquainted with evil.”

This time Duana did not respond.

Gwilym returned to the maps. He began placing pebbles on the largest one, representing armies. He moved the stones around like a boy playing at war, imagining battles fought, supplies moved, territory lost and gained. Where the armies would camp, which castles would hold and which ports would fall. He played a giant game of chess with real pawns and castles and knights. And the white queen locked safely in her luxurious apartment at London court.

As if she recalled it, Duana sat up and asked, “What of Prince Llewelyn’s son?”

“FitzWalter ordered Gruffydd released from The Tower. The boy is with Llewelyn. Gruffydd must remain in London, but at least Llewelyn has his Guto,” Gwilym said. “Llewel brought him by earlier, but you were asleep. Gruffydd is much the same as he was in The Tower: broken, but at least fed and clean.”

“What of William?”

“What of me, Cariad?” he asked. He drummed a gray pebble against the map in the even, relentless rhythym of soldiers marching toward battle. “I have not yet killed FitzWalter, nor committed high treason, nor gotten into a fist fight with Llewelyn.” The pebble called a halt, resting near Lincoln Castle. “I miss each of my children so much I ache. Monsters prowl my dreams. My wife – who has just given birth and ridden through the snowy mountains to lie to me about being attacked by a madman – has half her face unmarked. Would you not call my day a success?”

He did not look at her as he spoke. He was taking his bad temper out on her, trying to provoke a battle she lacked the energy to fight. He glanced up, embarrassed. Her blue eyes watched him sadly.

He sighed tiredly and, with his finger, flicked the pebble off Lincolnshire. On the map, the little stone landed atop a dragon in the Northern Sea. “Cariad, I hate every soul in London except you and a tavern-owner in Southwark who makes a lamb stew second only to Gwen’s.”

“That is a sad state of affairs.” She gestured for him to come to her, so he gathered up the map, left a pile of pebbles on the tabletop, and sat on the floor in front of the sofa. She stroked his hair, and he luxuriated in the soothing sensation. For a time, the map lay unrolled and unsupervised on the rug, and his head lay against her leg as he put off the inevitable. He thought of not telling her until morning, but that seemed crueler. “We will be home soon,” Duana assured him. “A fortnight. Home to the babies, and Aber, and grumpy Melvin, and Gwen’s stew, and-”

“MayDay.” He could not recall a word ever requiring more effort to leave his mouth. "I wish we could be home in a fortnight, but if God wills it, perhaps we can return in time for the bonfires."

The stroking stopped. “But that is months away.”

“You have not asked on what terms the King ordered Llewelyn’s son released,” he reminded her. “Or who else the King will hold hostage until he gets his way. Or, even, what the King asks of me and Llewelyn.”

The air behind him felt pained. After a long pause, she said evenly, “The word you are looking for is ‘Fitz.’ Do not say ‘the King’ if you mean ‘Fitz.’ What is it FitzWalter wants, William?”

“For Llewelyn and me to win his war against the French. If we do, I can take you home and Llewelyn may take Gruffydd. For now, you and Gruffydd must remain at Court. Eimile and Mab will remain in Wales. They are with your mother and Llewelyn’s wife, and safe. I will not risk bringing them through the mountains in winter.” Once he began speaking, he told her all at once, a deluge of pain rather than parsing it out. He watched the floor rather than looking back at her. “Duana, there is no choice.”

“What if you lose?”

Rather than answer, he unrolled the map on the rug and told her, "Watch. The King wants the French out of Dover here in the south. My troops are wintering here." He indicated Wales. "The Norman armies are here and here above London. If I-" Gwilym heard something suspiciously like a sob. "Do not cry. I forbid you to cry."

Duana rose, stumbled over him and around his map, and walked quickly to the bedchamber. Gwilym followed, and found her face down among the pillows. 

"Go away," she commanded, which he ignored. He climbed onto the huge bed, boots and all, and sat beside her. "How can Fitz do this? Fitz will keep me here while he sends you off to die." 

"Untrue." After several tries, he got her to turn over. "I will tell the men what to do. Nothing more. The other generals will lead the armies. I will never ride into battle; I promise."

She sniffed and looked at him with her red-rimmed eyes and poor, swollen cheek. "Your promise is like that old gray cloak I could not peel off your back: so thin I can hold it up to the window and see sunlight through it.”

“Still, it is a comforting promise.” He took her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Whatever the cost, I will keep my family safe. I promise that, as well. If I must make a deal with the Devil, so be it. It will not be the first time.”

She studied the elaborate bed canopy above them. Gwilym lay down beside her and helped scrutinize it. He waited to hear her sob or feel her body start to quake. Instead, her chest rose and fell. She swallowed, and asked in a steady voice, “Can you win Fitz’s war, William?” 

“I believe I can.”

"Our children are safe. I am safe. Win his damn war so we can go home,” Duana instructed in the tone she once used to debate which of them would murder King John. “Do not dare get yourself killed doing it.”

“All right.” The cold weight lifted from his body. Their fingers remained intertwined, but Gwilym moved their hands from the mattress between them to his chest. “You never fail to surprise me, Cariad. How you can appear so fragile yet be far stronger than-”

“Than you?”

“Than anyone would guess,” he corrected haughtily. “Do not be impertinent, woman. I lead Llewelyn’s and the King’s army.”

She laughed so softly he barely heard her. “That may be, my lord, but your legions of knights and archers and foot soldiers are not here. Are you confident you can reach your sword before I do?”

“Can you use a sword?”

“No,” she confessed. “Long ago, Fitz taught me to use a knife, but the knights’ swords were too heavy. I have seen enough knights spar to be able to hold a sword and bluff, though.”

He squeezed her hand and repeated, “You never fail to surprise me.”

She had slept the day away, but Gwilym had not. He slept little the night before, or the night prior, thanks to his nightmares. Now, as he dozed, her voice requested softly, “Do not lose, William, and do not leave me. Our year is not yet up." 

"Our year?" 

"The bonfires, the vows. For a year and a day nothing can come between us.” She laid his hand on her heart. “Our year has not ended. Do not break your vow to me." 

"I will not," he promised. 

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth VI: Echen 

Hiraeth VII: Adduned

*~*~*~* 

Logically, a baby must tire of crying at some point. FitzWalter had seen babies sleep; he knew it must happen sometime. 

The squalling child the old woman held had stamina rivaling Gwilym’s. FitzWalter had ridden with Gwilym as he surveyed the troops and the lay of the land, and the Welshman was exhausting. Gwilym thought three weeks ahead of everyone else, and all this brilliance made FitzWalter's head hurt. The sobbing baby in the corner of the tavern did not help, though the pretty young whore on FitzWalter’s lap might improve the winter evening.

FitzWalter rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration and asked irritably, “How can you think in this racket?”

Gwilym looked up from his map uncertainly. He had not understood.

“Noise,” FitzWalter clarified. “Racket. The baby crying.”

“It is tired,” Gwilym responded impassively. “Not hungry or in pain. Merely tired.”

FitzWalter could not fathom how Gwilym knew that. “Show me again,” he requested. FitzWalter toyed with the girl’s long auburn hair. “Where are Gloucester’s men and where are mine? Is the Earl of Chester's army the spoon or the coins?"

Gwilym adjusted the map atop the wobbly wooden table. "Look. Have Gloucester move his army toward London from the west while the royal army approaches from the northeast. That is enough men and knights it looks like a sizable force. It will be days before you can bring the other armies down from the north, but I do not want to wait. You want to use mainly mercenaries for the initial attack?"

“Yes,” FitzWalter muttered. “No. What? Do something with that baby!" he ordered to old woman in English. 

The tavern owner, knowing these noblemen would pay well to spend the night and pay better to spend it with the prostitutes, gestured for his wife to take the child outside. The girl on FitzWalter’s lap watched worriedly.

"Here," one of the noblemen said. The man placed his cup on the parchment to keep it unrolled, and he raised his hands. "Here. Not out. Cold." 

The old woman hesitated. Norman soldiers would kill children for sport, but this one did not sound nor look Norman. The tavern owner nodded his approval, so she handed the child to the dark-haired man and went back to cooking. 

“What is wrong with that child?” FitzWalter asked.

Gwilym wrapped the dirty blanket tightly around the baby, nestled the crying bundle against his chest, and leaned back in his chair. “Aside from being filthy? Only tired, I think,” he repeated. “Too tired to go to sleep easily. I think this child’s mother sits on your lap. Look at the red hair."

Gwilym glanced up and found the young woman watching him. Quickly, she returned her attention to FitzWalter.

FitzWalter petted her auburn hair again. She smiled at him encouragingly. "Is this your child?" He asked in French and repeated the question in English. 

Her green eyes widened and her freckled face earnestly shook 'no.' 

Gwilym did not argue. The baby was two months old at the most, and the prostitute eighteen and desperately in need of the coins in FitzWalter’s purse.

Gwilym patted the baby and spoke to it soothingly. After a moment, the sobbing subsided. “Better?” 

FitzWalter nodded. “How did you do that? Why did you do that?”

"I have had four children, including one this age," Gwilym answered. "I miss them. Do you not have any?" 

"Isabelle and I do not have any children.”

Gwilym shrugged one shoulder. “You have not been married long.”

FitzWalter did not respond.

Gwilym looked up, intrigued. Most noblemen would agree they were newlywed, or point out they had been away at war or on Crusade. They might mention their wife was ill or quite young or give some other reason she had not yet conceived. It sounded like FitzWalter did not have any children with his new wife, the Queen mother, nor did he expect any. Isabelle was not yet thirty. She bore five children for King John; Gwilym saw no reason why she would not conceive again. Even men who detested their wives managed to bed them occasionally in pursuit of a legitimate son. FitzWalter seldom mentioned Isabelle nor talked of visiting Pembroke Castle to see her. Gwilym found it odd a newlywed nobleman nearing thirty and lacking a legitimate son would live more than two hundred miles from his new wife, especially a wife who enjoyed London Court.

“What of your other children?” Gwilym asked.

FitzWalter looked uncertain.

“Base-born? Bastard?” Gwilym said. “Which word is polite? I mean no offense.”

"I have a king for a stepson, William. What more could a man ask for?" FitzWalter said a bit too quickly.

"How is that handled, in England?" Gwilym asked as if he didn't know. "Noble bastards, after a nobleman marries?"

"There are no noble bastards in Wales?" FitzWalter retorted. "If you have four children, by my count, two are illegitimate."

"There was no distinction in Wales until recently. There is still no difference among commoners. If the mother claims the child is mine, I agree, and no man disputes my claim, that child is my heir. It does not matter who my wife is, at present or in the future. The mother's relationship with me - Christian wife, hearth wife, mistress, or passing fancy - does not matter. It does not matter if the child is not of my blood, even."

"So if this girl-" FitzWalter nodded to the pretty redhead. "-says this baby is yours, and you agree, it is your legal heir the same as your children with Duana and your older children with your mistress?"

"If I agree," Gwilym answered easily. “According to Welsh legend, linage was once traced through the mother. The father was...” He struggled momentarily to think of the word ‘immaterial’ in French. “Not important. Getting to claim my children, in Wales, is modern thinking.”

"That is such a queer custom. How often is a woman's claim disputed?"

"Rarely. It is a public claim, and she knows the man must respond publicly. If the mother knows the true father will not claim the child, she will likely find another man who will. Healthy sons, especially, rarely go unclaimed."

FitzWalter shook his head in disbelief. "That is barbaric."

Gwilym considered for a moment. "It is pragmatic." He used the Latin word. "It would seem to have been your father's view."

"You did not know my father," FitzWalter responded tightly.

A slim blonde woman refilled their cups. She reminded Gwilym of Muretta, and his mind wandered momentarily to Muretta and her unborn, unclaimed child. The blonde must have noticed his gaze because, uninvited, she sat down beside Gwilym. Under the table, out of sight, Gwilym removed the hand she placed high on his thigh. 

"I meant no offense," Gwilym said in the same casual manner, and patted the sleeping baby. "Your customs seem odd to us, in turn. I meant to say... You are raising another man's child. Henry is as much your son as if he was your blood. Do you love him any differently than your base-born children?"

"King Henry," FitzWalter corrected tersely, "is my stepson, but first and foremost, he is the King. He is ordained by God. I would not dare compare my love for my King to my affection for any base-born son I do or do not have. I would suggest you do not, either."

"You are right, of course," Gwilym agreed. "My apologies."

FitzWalter filled an uncomfortable silence by whispering something in the redhead's ear. She giggled. 

The blonde returned her hand to Gwilym’s inner thigh and groin. He removed her hand a second time and silently warned her there should not be a third time.

"I am not looking at any more of your maps tonight, William, nor discussing the finer points of inheritance laws. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am going upstairs. Are you coming or will you spend the evening playing nursemaid?"

"You have claimed the one redhead in the tavern, FitzWalter." Gwilym still deliberately sounded like the fool Normans expected a Welshman to be. “Yet you have a near copy of her at camp.” That was true. In the English army’s camp FitzWalter’s big tent had rugs and a true bed and every comfort, including a slight, auburn-haired young woman who could have been this prostitute’s or Duana's sister. 

FitzWalter regarded Gwilym coolly.

Taking a different tact, Gwilym said, "I thought Isabelle was a blonde. The most beautiful blonde in the kingdom, some men say. Do you not like to..." He shrugged his shoulder again. "Pretend?" Knowing FitzWalter would refuse, he offered, "I will trade. This blonde for your redhead." 

"Isabelle is the prettiest blonde in the kingdom, but variety is nice as well." He gave the redhead a squeeze. On cue, she smiled expectantly. "I was here first. Close your eyes and make do with the blonde."

"I will bid you goodnight and be back by morning." Gwilym stood and handed the baby to the old woman. He paid the tavern owner for what he had eaten, and rolled up his maps. "By first light." 

"Oh, for God's sake! Are you going to go pout? Fine. Take the redhead." 

"I am riding to London. We are close. No more than fifteen miles. I also have my own redhead." 

"Through the snow?" FitzWalter said to the back of Gwilym's head. The Welshman did not seem to sleep - nor enjoy the company of women, nor do anything except plot war – but this was ridiculous. "You are going to ride through the snow and ride back before dawn? It will be midnight by the time you reach London. Where is the sense in that?" 

The cold night air whirled in, and the tavern door banged as it closed behind Gwilym. 

"Shit!" the Kingmaker said. He draped his arm around the whore's shoulders, thinking the Welshman bluffed. Gwilym’s horse’s quick hoof beats faded outside. FitzWalter sighed and guided the girl upstairs.

*~*~*~* 

London Court looked to have tilted and filtered all the occupants to one corner. 

The Welsh knight guarding Duana’s apartment told Gwilym that Henry, with FitzWalter away, slept in the small chamber across the hall from Duana. That meant Henry's manservants and guards overflowed and slept in the hallway and Duana’s sitting room. At midnight, the hearth and the sitting room rug of her apartment looked like the aftermath of a Roman orgy. A second Welsh knight stood guard at her bedchamber door. The third knight, off-duty, slept nearby on a borrowed pillow and with his red cloak as a blanket. Though the Prince of Wales had his own rooms, Llewelyn dozed on the sofa in Duana’s sitting room, guarding both Duana and his auburn-haired teenage son, who lay on a pallet within arm’s reach of the sofa. 

Llewelyn opened his eyes as Gwilym approached, nodded silently, and closed his eyes again. The Prince would join the battle to lead the Welsh army but he wanted to stay with Gruffydd for now. Until more Welsh knights arrived in London – and since so many people had free run of Duana’s rooms - Gwilym agreed that was best.

Sleeping maids dotted the floor of Duana’s bedchamber, and Gwilym began to wonder how many servants one young king required. Personally, Gwilym did not require two servants and a spare to hold a pot while he pissed in it. He stepped over the maids, pulled off his boots and outer clothes, and brought a candle with him as he climbed onto the high bed. After he closed the bed curtains and set the candle on a shelf in the headboard, Gwilym stripped to the skin and slipped beneath the blankets. He whispered to Duana, “The Latin word, Cariad, is ‘cunnilingus.’”

Duana blinked as she woke, but did not seem surprised to find him in her bedchamber. By candlelight, he saw faded brown and yellow bruises still covered her cheek. Her smile made the long, cold ride worthwhile.

She stretched, and put her arms around his neck welcomingly. “You are frozen.”

“I am also nasty,” he warned. “I smell of three days’ riding and an evening in a tavern.”

“I do not care. You are my William, and you are here. I would take you frozen and nasty and covered in honey, so long as you are safe.”

“Once this war is over, I will let you take me covered in honey. That sounds interesting, I think.” He kissed down her neck since his lips were more likely to be warm than his hands. “Cunnilingus,” he whispered in her ear. “To lick. The cunny.”

“I see what is on your mind.” Duana untied the neck of her chemise and ran her fingers through his hair. “Should I ask how you learned this new word?”

“I confessed my sin to a priest, and he said the word. Norman priests near army camps know all the best sins.”

She sat up to skin off her chemise and smiled invitingly in the candlelight. Gwilym thought, for a fleeting moment, what a fool FitzWalter was – and what a fool Gwilym once was – to think any whore’s rented smile rivaled one from a woman who truly loved him. 

“Come here, my lord,” Duana requested. “Make me take God’s name in vain.”

He found himself on top of her with his hands in her beautiful hair and her lips outlining his profile. As he kissed her, every muscle in his tired body exhaled and relaxed. She warmed him like the sun, flowed over him like the tides, and she was his world.

“The door is not barred. There are people everywhere,” Gwilym said as his reason started to slip south. Duana seemed nonplussed, but he would never get used to London Court, where closed bed curtains were considered as private as stone walls. 

Duana’s warm foot traced up his calf as her fingernails trailed down his bare back. Gwilym’s hands warmed quickly, as did the rest of him. She reminded him, “The royal servants do not speak Welsh,” as if that made a difference.

“Llewelyn does and is in the next room. He will judge us if we are not quiet. You cannot be quiet.”

“Envy,” Duana said. “Not ‘judge.’ The French word is ‘envy.’ You are the one who cannot be quiet.”

“Fine. Llewel will envy us.”

“Let him,” she whispered in his ear.

*~*~*~* 

God, in His perfection, created woman from man, so Duana’s naked body fit against Gwilym’s perfectly. His hips fit against her soft, warm backside, and her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. The valley of her waist created a place to rest his hand and the soles of her feet rested on the tops of his feet. She smelled perfect and she felt perfect, and the fit was divine.

He would sleep here until spring. Or at least, noon. Or at least, dawn.

One of the maids asleep on the floor snorted, shifted, and continued snoring.

“How long can you stay?” Duana’s voice asked softly.

Gwilym opened his eyes and looked up at the candle in the headboard. Judging by how much the candle had burned down, he answered, “Another hour or two. Three, if I push my stupid horse and pretend seven is dawn. FitzWalter expects me back by first light.”

“When will I see you again?”

Speaking exclusively Welsh, he answered, "We will attack in two days, and retreat through London. I will try to see you for a few hours. Once the French troops lay siege to London, we will be driven farther inland and north before we divide and backtrack. Afterward, it is a matter of waiting."

Duana petted the dark hair on his arm. "What war do you begin knowing you will lose?" 

“A war in which the enemy must get food and supplies and fresh troops twenty miles across the Dover Straits from France by boat. The kind where, in the dead of winter, the enemy will find London unexpectedly closes her gates. The foreign troops will have nothing except what can be brought from France and, while the French are busy trying to seize London, I will see nothing can be brought from France. Every English port will refuse French ships and every English city will close her gates."

"You lure them inland, starve them in winter, and once you move your armies down from the north and surround the French, you will attack.”

He nodded, shifted contentedly, and said, “Tell me of Aber." 

"The messenger returned yesterday. I sent him to the army camp to find you, but I suppose he has not yet. Pyn says all is well with the castle. Sir Melvin sends word the Welsh cavalry will be west of London in a day and the Welsh army there in two weeks, as you ordered. He says 'all is ready,' and he is 'seven days into getting his indulgence money back and ready to kill some Frenchmen,' whatever that means. He could not bring Goliath because of his foot, but Melvin offers his horse, if you want it." 

"Compared to Merfyn’s bad-tempered nag, Lariat is cooperative and brilliant," Gwilym replied. "Did- Is there any word-" 

"Mother and Princess Joanna say Eimile and Mab are well. Eimile can walk well. Mab can roll over, and his eyes remain blue." 

"I wanted his eyes to be blue because your eyes are blue," Gwilym murmured like a sentimental fool.

“Mother sent something with the messenger. Close your eyes.” 

Gwiym’s eyes were closed. Duana moved away, and he felt the mattress dip. A moment later, soft fabric brushed his face. 

“Smell,” she told him. 

He inhaled. "Mab. My clean, after a bath, baby boy." Gwilym opened his eyes to see her holding a little blanket. "I will take it with me," he said impulsively, but realized he was selfish. "It would be ruined, though."

Duana lay down behind him again. She draped the soft little blanket over their bare shoulders. “I will give you something else.”

“Must I move to get it?”

She shook her head. “I will give it to you when you wake.”

Though he did not judge it was her intent, he warned, “Unless you want to be the death of me, keep your pretty Latin mouth to yourself, you wanton witch.”

“In three hours? William, you are not nineteen. Even I cannot raise the dead.”

Tightening his arm around her waist, he tickled her so she squirmed and squealed.

The maid on the floor snorted in her sleep.

“Mind you finish your sewing and accounts while I am away,” Gwilym whispered to Duana. “As soon as I have won this war and slept a few months, your thighs will become strangers to each other.”

Duana giggled like a teenage girl.

The sleeping maid shifted, broke wind, and resumed her romantic chorus of snores.

Gwilym giggled with Duana, a sound he barely recognized from himself. He might be at war with the known world but he felt at peace with her. If he could have captured that moment of perfect symmetry between them, caged it, he could have lived in it for eternity.

“Braggart,” she accused in a scornful whisper. 

“I am not bragging. Come summer, any man who manages to pull me out of you should be crowned King of England.”

“I will plan my time accordingly.” She snuggled against him. "As you dress, take the new shirt from my sewing basket. Leave me the one you have been wearing."

"It is not torn," he answered tiredly. “Just dirty. But I will.” 

As much as he dreaded it, Gwilym looked at the candle again. The flame nibbled mercilessly at the wax, stealing away precious time.

“Sleep,” Duana whispered. “I will tell you when it is time.”

He exhaled and, curled safely around Duana, let himself drift into the abyss.

For that night, his nightmares did not come.

*~*~*~* 

The first soldiers began trickling through London after dawn, looking frighteningly bloodied and defeated. By breakfast, the trickle became a stream. Soon, men flooded through the streets, many foreign and all covered with blood and mud. Duana stopped watching and tried to sew, but Gruffydd remained anxiously at the sitting room window. Everything about Gruffydd – his demeanor, his intonation – suggested a frightened child rather than a handsome young man a head taller than Duana and with a light auburn beard.

“Father is fine?” he asked Duana in Welsh.

“Your father is fine,” she assured Gruffydd in French. “Do not pick at your hair.”

Each time Duana spoke French, Gruffydd looked back at her, puzzled, but resumed watching the retreating soldiers. King Henry lay on his belly on the floor arranging toy soldiers and horses in a pretend battle. The food the maid could find – yesterday’s bread, some cheese, and several aged apples – remained on the table, forgotten.

Duana’s sewing needle pricked her fingertip and a drop of blood spread into the pale fabric. She inhaled sharply and gritted her teeth. If she had been alone, she would have cursed and thrown the garment across the room. Certainly, she made no progress at sewing it, but she was powerless to do anything else.

“Father is fine?” Gruffydd began to twist his wavy hair between his fingers.

Duana took a slow breath. She wanted to scream but instead she answered Gruffydd. “Your father is fine. The army is pretending to lose, but that is a secret. You cannot tell anyone," she said calmly. “Do not pick at your hair.”

Gruffydd tucked his hands beneath his legs obediently. He continued to sit on the tall stool and watch through the narrow glass window. 

"I know secrets," Henry offered. He looked un-kingly in the first outfit he ever chose for himself: an oversized tunic of Fitz's, his own embroidered velvet bed-robe, and tall boots like the Welsh knights he made friends with. The servants, seeing London would soon be under siege, scattered like rats, and no one bothered dressing the ten-year-old. Instead, someone sent him to Duana's apartment where he would be safe and out of the way. "I know many secrets," he said, clearly waiting to be asked what they were. 

Gruffydd turned his head, watching someone passing below. Henry continued focusing on his toy soldiers on the rug, but Duana noticed the Welsh guard standing inside the apartment door watched the window, as well. The knight would know better than Duana how this battle should go.

"Father is fine?" Gruffydd asked in his oddly absent yet worried voice.

Duana took another deep breath. Logically, if William had watched the battle, he would retreat behind, not with the mercenaries and Norman and Welsh soldiers. Fitz would be behind the men as well, but Prince Llewelyn should have led the retreat and be among the first to reach London. She put the sewing aside and joined Gruffydd at the window. The knights she saw outside wore the red tunics of the Welsh and English army.

She heard footsteps in the hall.

“Father is fine?” Gruffydd repeated anxiously. “Mother?”

"Father is fine, Guto," Prince Llewelyn’s voice said as the apartment door swung open. “Father even brought you a present.”

Gruffydd, beaming, scrambled down from his perch at the window. Gwilym entered behind Llewelyn. Both men were out of breath, as if they had run up the steps, and covered in blood and dirt and gore from head to toe. A pretty Saxon girl of about seventeen accompanied them. She had fair skin and piercing blue eyes and wild black hair decorated with braids and ribbons. She wore a faded dress but a rich cape Duana recognized as Prince Llewelyn’s. 

"We have been soundly beaten," William announced victoriously. "We are in a splendid, full retreat." 

Gruffydd began to wring his hands. 

Duana stared at the two men, and at the girl. “Where, where are you hurt?”

"Nowhere," William assured her. "We slaughtered a bunch of pigs last night and painted ourselves." He held out his arms for her to examine. "Do I not look lovely? You should have seen the fine time Merfyn had tossing livers and hearts and pig intestines over his shoulder as we fled the field. I have never seen a man's liver laying on a battlefield, but Merfyn thought it a wonderful idea.”

Duana hurriedly got a towel from the bedchamber. She wet the towel and returned to William. She ordered him to sit near the window as she tried to wipe off a layer of filth. Nearby, despite Llewelyn’s assurances, Gruffydd was upset. Duana passed the towel to Llewelyn, who wiped the dried blood from his face and tried to convince Gruffydd he was unharmed.

Forgotten, Henry looked up from his toy soldiers. He asked, “Where is Fitz?” for the first time seeming uncertain.

“Your stepfather is behind us,” Llewelyn assured Henry. “FitzWalter is fine.”

“He is clean,” William added disdainfully. 

Duana saw Prince Llewelyn kiss Gruffydd’s forehead, stroke his hair and, as Gruffydd calmed, show off the pagan girl. Llewelyn said she had been following the mercenaries. He asked in Welsh if Gruffydd liked her. The girl appraised Gruffydd and glanced at Prince Llewelyn uncertainly. She looked around the lavish room. The girl picked at a patch on her skirt, tossed her hair back, and looked at Gruffydd again.

Gruffydd picked up the end of one of the girl’s long, dark braids.

Duana fetched another towel and resumed wiping off William, who assured her, “I am fine, Cariad. I got decked out in case I had to go into battle, but I did not." He grinned at her proudly. “The most danger I have seen is helping Llewel pull this wildcat of a girl and her dagger off some Norman soldier who refused to pay her.”

His assurances reached Duana’s mind, and she felt relieved to the point of being faint. Her hand shook as she wiped William’s forehead and cheek, trying to expand the clean spots. 

“It is me. I am fine,” he repeated. “I am yours for an hour. Will you comfort a defeated Welsh general, pretty Irish girl?” 

"Comfort? I would kiss you if you were not so nasty, William!" she blurted.

"Kiss me anyway, Cariad." He licked his lips clean for her. 

As Duana moved toward William, she heard Prince Llewelyn tell his son, “Mathilda. She said her name is Mathilda and agreed to come with me. Beyond that, I do not know. She seems to understand English but speaks, I think, only Old Saxon. See what you discover, son.”

Gruffydd smiled down at Mathilda with the same charming smile his father possessed. The girl, a head shorter than Gruffydd, looked up him with those bright blue eyes. She looked equally likely to kiss or kill him.

Duana paused, curious. William paused with her. Duana had never seen a true pagan Saxon. The Saxons, like the other Germanic tribes, had become Christian and intermarried with Normans and Celts and Slavs and Vikings for several hundred years until they became the mottled stew known as ‘English.’

Gruffydd took the Saxon girl’s hand. In fluent English, the boy told Mathilda his name, paid her some complement, and asked her a question too quickly for Duana to follow. Whatever the boy asked, the girl responded with a nod and a knowing smile.

Prince Llewelyn held out his hand, palm up. The Saxon girl blinked at him. She untied and returned Llewelyn’s red cloak, which the Prince set aside. Llewelyn snapped his fingers and opened his hand again. Acquiescing, she put her foot on the sofa, pulled up her skirt, and gave Llewelyn a little dagger secreted inside her worn boot. Llewelyn exchanged the dagger for a purse of money and pointed toward the door to the hall. “My chambers, Guto,” he instructed as Gruffydd led the girl away. “Mind your manners, and do not bring her to Lady Duana’s apartment again.”

Gwilym steered Duana toward the bedchamber, wanting to make the most of his hour of “comfort.” Duana saw Prince Llewelyn put the dagger aside and sit down on the sofa. The Prince looked pleased with himself, but momentarily perplexed. He glanced after Gruffydd, and at William. 

The King of England resumed playing with his toy soldiers.

The Prince of Wales slouched lower on the sofa, interlaced his fingers on his lap, and settled in to wait.

*~*~*~*

An hour later, Llewelyn bid farewell to his son and rode away, rejoining the Welsh army as it retreated. Gruffydd watched from his tall stool at the window of Lady Duana’s sitting room. The Saxon girl remained in his father’s rooms, asleep. Gruffydd held a piece of parchment Llewelyn had given him. The page had a hundred and twenty tally marks. Each morning, Gruffydd was to scrape away one mark with his knife, and his father would return for him before he reached the final mark. Pretty Lady Duana would watch over Guto in London; Lord Gwilym’s son Dafydd had died, and Lord Gwilym must fight with Father. But they would go home, Father promised. Mathilda could come to Wales, if she liked. Mother would not be at Dolwyddelan Castle because she had died, too, but Joanna would, and Joanna would take care of Gruffydd. He and Father would see sister Gwladus, and the twins: Rhys and Angharad. They would see Joanna’s daughters: Elan and Susanna and Marared. They would not see Mother because she died, nor could Guto ride to Aber to see Dafydd, but in less than one hundred and twenty days, Father would return.

At the last minute, FitzWalter, Count of Pembroke, Regent, and Marshal of England, remained in the besieged city with the young King. FitzWalter arrived at Duana’s apartment at least twenty minutes after Gwilym and Llewelyn. By that time, despite Llewelyn’s assurances his stepfather was fine, King Henry struggled not to cry. He flung his arms around FitzWalter and ordered him to stay in London. FitzWalter, seeming taken aback, agreed. 

The last of the Welsh and Norman soldiers passed by the castle, and the citizens of London followed them like an outgoing tide. Still, Gwilym lingered with Duana. As the French front line approached the Thames, he kissed her goodbye and wordlessly slipped away. Lord Gwilym of Aber was the last soldier to leave London, riding out at a full gallop as the final city gate lowered. 

Duana watched from the bedchamber window, wrapped in a blanket from the bed and with her hair still disheveled. The dried blood from Gwilym’s skin had flaked off. She found the rusty flecks beneath her nails and between her breasts. She glanced at the ornate bed. Specks of old blood dotted the bed sheets, as well. She felt him – inside her and connected to her – regardless of the distance between them.

FitzWalter sent a servant to check on her. She ignored his servant, so FitzWalter came himself. He held a one-sided conversation with her barred bedchamber door. Duana watched as the sun set and the abandoned city darkened. By midnight, she heard the French army’s siege equipment attacking London. The city walls would hold, and her husband would return for her. Gwilym had promised.

*~*~*~*

Winter weeks became months as the meager Welsh and English troops retreated north. The French army pursued them greedily, gobbling up frozen ground at a glutton’s pace. The French continued to besiege London, and laid siege to Gloucester and Nottingham and Bristol, as well. But no city offered quarter, and no food or fresh troops could come from France. The ports remained closed. The peasants called the last of winter the starving season: no early crops and nothing to eat except leftover stores. But the thinly-spread French troops had no barley or smoked herring or pickles tucked away. The rest of the English troops slipped out of Scotland and Ireland, joined forces with the full Welsh army, and positioned themselves around the hungry, exhausted French. 

Wary of spies among the English, Gwilym and Llewelyn rode ahead of the troops to talk strategy. Tomorrow, they agreed. They would turn the Welsh and English armies at Lincoln Castle, take the French by surprise, and pick off as many as possible as they herded the French back to a final battle around London.

All the chess pieces were in place and the end in sight. In another month, Gwilym would be riding home to Wales with Duana. The spring lambs would have arrived and the first pale green grass would push through the wet ground. He let his mind wander to it: seeing her again, seeing Aber and the children. Duana’s smile, her lips. How much Mab and Eimile would have grown. He wrapped the luxury of the daydream around him like a blanket against the wet cold.

Gwilym saw something move in the snowy brush but took it for a rabbit. Instead, he and Llewelyn rounded a curve in Lincolnshire and flushed out a small band of French deserters. The Frenchmen lashed out, brandishing daggers and pikes. Gwilym’s horse reared, nearly throwing him. In the melee of swords that followed, Gwilym felt a blade bite his hip. Within seconds though, the deserters’ bodies lay on the frozen ground. Gwilym wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it, as did the half-dozen knights who had come to their aid. He twisted, trying to see the wound. The blade had found the flesh below Gwilym’s chainmail shirt and behind the armor atop his thighs. A lucky strike but, it appeared, not a serious one.

“Llewel, I have a pain in my ass besides Marshal FitzWalter,” Gwilym called to the Prince. 

Prince Llewelyn swayed in his saddle and began to slide sideways as blood seeped through the leg of his breeches. 

*~*~*~*

Llewelyn would have a fine new scar to add to his scar collection but he would not lead an army in the morning. Or the next morning, or likely be able to ride for a week.

The Earl of Chester opened the gate of Lincoln Castle to Gwilym and Llewelyn, though the French troops were twenty miles away. The castle would be besieged by the next night. Llewelyn could remain there and convalesce but the Welsh army – in fact, the entire English army - needed a Field Marshal General tomorrow morning.

Gwilym left Llewelyn bandaged and dozing and in the care of his men. Gwilym followed a servant across the hall to another large bed chamber. The servant offered to help Gwilym undress but Gwilym waved him away, irritable and lost in thought. After some fumbling, he unfastened his gauntlets, back and chest plate, leg armor and shoulder pieces. Exhausted, he let the heavy chain-mail shirt fall to the floor. He pushed his breeches and brasiers down over one hip and held the candle close, craning to see the cut. 

The shallow wound might have come from the French deserters or, in such close quarters, a stray blade among his own men; he had no way to know. Regardless, Gwilym confirmed he would live to fight another day. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, left each article where it landed, set the candle on a table, and crawled naked into bed. The hearth crackled. The mattress seemed to spin as he lay staring up at the canopy.

Merfyn could lead Llewelyn's and Gwilym's knights. Llewelyn's Captain of the Guard could serve as Lieutenant General of the Welsh army. Gwilym was impressed with several of the English generals; one of them would do as a Lieutenant General for the English. Another would lead the mercenaries; that was decided. A third could take Gwilym's place as strategist, watching the battle and communicating with the Marshal on the field. There must still be a Field Marshal General of the whole army. That had been Llewelyn. It could have been FitzWalter, but FitzWalter was trapped in London. Delaying the battle gave the French time to bring reinforcements. Gwilym could think of no option besides continuing as he and Llewelyn planned, but without Prince Llewelyn. It was a brilliant plan, except Gwilym would lead the King's army in battle while relying on a general he did not know, in a language in which he was not fluent, and with a right hand that still went numb sometimes. 

He promised Duana, though.

Gwilym exhaled tiredly, rolled over, and put his arm around the female form beneath the covers. 

He jumped back so quickly he almost fell off the other side of the bed. 

"Jesus! My God! My lady, I am sorry.” He scrambled up. “The servant showed me to this room. There must be some mistake. Mary, Holy Mother of God; I am sorry. I will find my... Christ on the Cross! I will go. I am so sorry." Bards told tales of commoners crawling into bed with the wrong person, and of women mistaking a stranger in the dark for their husband, but those were funny stories. If Gwilym had accidentally slipped naked into bed with another nobleman’s wife – and the wife objected – FitzWalter would need yet another substitute Field Marshal General. Gwilym would hang.

As he pleaded his innocence and struggled to find his breeches or brasiers in the light from a single candle, the woman sat up. An unsteady little voice asked, "My lord, are you William of Aber, the Lord of Gwynedd?" 

"I am," he managed to say, and located his underclothes. He jerked them on. “Bid the masons spell it correctly on my tomb, and the bards dream up a more heroic reason for my death.” He yanked the lace at the waist of his brassiers in a hopeless knot. “Though my widow will find this tale perversely amusing.” 

He pawed through the jetsomed armor and chainmail and clothing on the rug. Cursing, he pulled his breeches on. 

"There is no mistake, my lord.” The same frightened female voice came from the bed. 

Gwilym stopped dressing and looked up. 

She wore a chemise, and, even in the darkness, was more a girl than a woman. “The Earl sent me."

“Why did the Earl-” Gwilym realized the answer. Norman hospitality. "Really?”

Long, dark, wavy hair framed her face. She clutched fistfuls of the sheet against her chest. With her shoulders roughly even with her ears, she nodded.

“How old are you, child?" He picked up the candle and moved closer to see her face. She leaned back, wary.

"About thirteen, my mother says." She watched him with big, dark eyes. She added an anxious, belated but polite, “My lord,” as if instructed to include the words in each sentence. Seeming to summon her courge, she composed the succinct, “Thirteen, my lord.”

"Thirteen?” He snorted, set the candle down with a thump, and resumed dressing. “Get up, silly girl.”

She repeated, “The Earl sent me,” as if that was the pertinent detail. 

“I would be more appreciative if he had sent you with bandages or a needle and thread. Get up. I have a daughter who would be-" He furrowed his brow and abruptly disembarked from his fatherly lecture. "You speak Welsh. I am speaking Welsh. We are one hundred and fifty miles from Wales. How does a girl in the east of England speak fluent Welsh?" 

"The Earl said you are an important Welsh nobleman,” she answered rapidly, forgetting the ‘my lord.’ “That you would be pleased with me.” 

He stood staring at her. “Are you his servent that he commands you, or has he paid you?” Gwilym wondered if she might be traveling with a band of Welsh musicians or actors, and tonight looking to earn a few coins. For a camp follower, she was unusually skittish and clean.

“The Earl bid me come to you, my lord. I am pleased to obey my lord,” she insisted unconvincingly, “And, and honored he would choose me.” 

Gwilym snorted. “I supposed you are equally pleased and honored he does not beat you or throw you out to starve.” 

Her chest rose as she took a breath. With a determined expression, she lowered the sheet and pushed it away. Her manner suggested she thought this a dare and Gwilym had mocked her valor. 

Mere chance, he told himself, watching her. Surely Lincolnshire held many dark-haired, Welsh-speaking girls the age his daughter would have been. Coltishly long-limbed girls with a cowlick at her temple where Diana’s and Tyna’s had been. Just a coincidence. In fact, had Gwilym been a French general – and smarter than most French generals - he might have planted the girl to assassinate the Lord of Aber.

She started to untie the neck of her chemise, but he said, "Stop.” He eased down to sit on the edge of the bed. “The Earl of Chester is your liege lord? Is he your father’s lord, as well?”

She nodded.

“Are your parents Welsh?”

She shook her head. 

“How is it you speak Welsh? Has someone taught you? Does the Earl afford you the honor of so many Welsh guest’s beds you have picked up the tongue?” 

She still held the end of the ribbons at the base of her throat. “He said you are an important Welsh nobleman, and you would be pleased with me. No one has ever taught me to speak Welsh, my lord. I merely do.” 

“That is impossible.”

She repeated yet again, “The Earl thought you would be pleased with me.” 

Gwilym studied the shape of her eyes. The breadth of her cheekbones. Years ago, he had searched every inch of Northern Wales after his daughter vanished. His men had searched. Gwen saw the girl playing in the bailey one minute and gone the next. They checked every house, every creek, every church between the Irish Sea and the Welsh border. She was gone. She fell off a cliff into the ocean, or wolves or wild pigs got her. Perhaps she tumbled into a well or a long-forgotten mine. Or she was stolen by Gypsies or taken by sailors bound for a foreign land where pretty girls fetched a good price. 

For a father, ‘perhaps’ never stopped prowling his nightmares. 

Gwilym would plaster Aber Chapel in gold leaf, and flagilate himself, fasting, from here to the Holy Land and back again if he found his daughter alive, warm, fed, and merely being prostituted to visiting noblemen.

His chest tightened as he asked, “What is your name?”

“Lucy.” The corners of her mouth turned down in a childish pout, as Diana's had. Still, Gwilym knew how easily a man found what he wanted to see. “Oh, you are not pleased with me.”

“Have you ever been called Catyna? Tyna?”

She shook her head. “My lord, if that is the name you prefer, I-” 

“Have you always lived in Lincolnshire?” he persisted. 

“Since I was a child, my lord.”

“You remain a child,” Gwilym informed her. “Were you born here?”

“I do not know. I am an orphan. My parents took me in. My lord-”

“How do you know you are an orphan?” His heart beat faster. Before she could answer, he asked, “Do you remember a brother named Dafydd? A father-” He scooted closer. “Look at me. I do not usually have a beard. Do you remember a Templar knight who lived in a castle? Your mother- You lived in the castle on a hill, overlooking the sea. There was a priest named Leuan and a cook, Gwen, and a little man named Merfyn who let you sit on his shoulders. There was a black pony named Saul because my horse was Goliath. You got in trouble for trying to get Saul to jump over things after I told you not to and-" He stopped. Exhaled. "You do not remember, do you?" 

She kept shaking her head, seeming puzzled by his questions. “Do you want me to agree, my lord?” She looked uneasy. “To pretend I am a little girl and you are my father? Would that please you?”

“Christ’s bones.” He sat back. “That does not please me, and never say it again.”

She nodded quickly and with child-like obedience. 

Gwilym took a long breath and changed tactics. “You are a lovely young woman, but tonight I need to sleep. Tomorrow night,” he promised, though he would be gone by tomorrow morning. 

She worried her lower lip between her teeth, as he did if perplexed. “The Earl, my lord: he said to do exactly as you bid me. He will be unhappy if he knows I did not please you.”

“In fact, I am quite pleased to find you in my bed, though not for the reason your lord intended.” Gwilym got to his feet. He pulled the covers up and tucked them around her. “Stay here. Say, in truth, you passed the night in my bed.”

"But you are-” She held the blankets against her chest and leaned forward. “You are leaving.” 

"I will talk to the Earl in the morning.” Gwilym gathered the armor strewn on the floor. “I will thank him and say you did exactly as I bid.”

“He will be angry with me.” She scrambled to her knees, still holding the blankets and sounding frightened. “He will be angry with my father.” 

“He will not be angry with anyone,” he assured her. He added his chainmail hauberk to the growing metal pile. “He will know nothing except what you or I tell him."

This seemed a sound plan to Gwilym. 

The girl looked at him wide-eyed until he realized the problem. 

Jesus, Gwilym would never understand Norman thinking. Even if he appreciated having a woman sent, unchosen and unbidden, to his guest bed for the night, she should be a prostitute. And an adult. He had no taste for girls this age and, aside from Old King John, he knew of no man who did. Once, Gwilym had asked Llewelyn what the Prince did with fourteen-year-old Joanna as a bride. “Waited for her to grow up,” had been Llewelyn’s disdainful response.

Gwilym gritted his teeth. "There will-" He got up and checked the cut on his hip. Blood oozed through the fabric. "There will be blood on the sheets for anyone who checks tomorrow morning. Will that do to please the Earl, or must I also swear an oath?”

Her shoulders hunched up again. 

“I am not angry with you,” he promised. “In fact, I will see if the Earl of Chester will let me buy you.” He reached for his boots. “Stay here. After I leave, bar the door until morning. I must leave before dawn. Frenchmen are about to lay siege to the castle but they will not get inside. Do not be afraid. I will win this war. I will buy you from the Earl and, as soon as I can, I will return for you. You will live in my castle in Wales.” 

Her head rose. “Would I be a chambermaid?”

“You would most certinaly not be a chambermaid.” He instructed, “Say you passed the night with me; tell no one the truth, not even the Earl. Return to your family and wait. Wait for the war to end and me to return for you. Do you understand?”

She nodded silently.

He sat on the edge of the mattress to pull on his boots. He picked up the candle and turned to look at her. It was not his imagination; the girl was the mirror image of Diana but with Gwilym’s full lips and sleepy eyes.

He glanced around the dark room in search of a book or quill. “Do you read Welsh and Latin? Can you write?”

She shook her head again, and regardless, his maps were with Llewelyn. Gwilym had parchment and a quill in his saddlebags, in the stables. Instead, he held up his index fingers, one vertical and the other horizontal, over it. “What letter does this form?”

“T,” she said without hesitation, and looked surprised. He tried his left thumb and forefinger, extended, and she said, “L. That is an L, my lord.” Her brow furrowed. “How can I know that?”

A stormy sea inside him began to calm. He remembered holding his infant daughter as Leuan christened her. He remembered her learning to walk, to say “Dehdeh,” to sit on Dafydd’s pony, clutching handfuls of mane. He remembered a time he had loved her mother, even. 

Gwilym took the girl’s hand. Her cool fingers felt small, like Duana’s, but rough. 

“I am a chambermaid. My father is a groom.” She repeated, “How can I know that?”

His mouth moved to say Tyna, but managed, “Lucy, I believe I-” He stopped. If he confessed he believed himself her father, she would ask after her mother. Ask after any brothers or sisters. The answers he had were cold earth and a silent tomb. “I believe you were born in Wales, and you should return there and live with me. Would that please you?”

She squeezed his hand. “It would, my lord. You seem a nice man.” 

He kissed her forehead. “Do exactly as I have told you.”

She nodded again. 

Gwilym piled his armor on his cloak and gathered it into a heavy bundle. He closed the door as he left. He heard her get up and bar it. 

Across the hall, a Welsh knight rose from his pallet on the floor outside Llewelyn’s room. “Are you all right, Lord Gwilym? Is the wound-”

Gwilym took a long, shuddery breath. He was not dreaming, nor drunk on Druid wine. He had seen what he thought he had seen.

“Guard this door as well,” he ordered, and tipped his head toward the room he just left. “The girl inside is mine. No one touches her.”

In Llewelyn’s bedchamber, the squires and knights had claimed the sofa, the table, and every inch of the hearth. There remained space on the bed, but Gwilym parted the bed curtains and held a candle close to Llewelyn’s face, making sure.

Prince Llewelyn opened his eyes and squinted blearily. He asked what the hell Gwilym was doing. 

Gwilym tugged off his boots and tunic but left his breeches on. “Scoot over,” he requested. “I am sleeping with you.”

"Are you so lonely I look like a woman to you?" Llewelyn mumbled in a voice suggesting strong herbs in his tea earlier.

"Move over," Gwilym responded, “unless you want to cuddle.”

“I am the Prince of Wales.” Llewelyn slowly, painfully shifted to one side of the bed. “I do not cuddle.”

"A pity. I think I prefer your hairy chest to the flat one in next room." 

"We cannot all be as pretty as you, Gwil," Llewelyn mumbled, and fell back to sleep. 

*~*~*~* 

Duana said William called his knights ‘Mawr’ and ‘Mawr Hyll’ – ‘Big’ and ‘Big Ugly.’ The names fit. The twin Welsh knights at her door stood taller than FitzWalter; one bore a scar on his face making him look as if he smirked. FitzWalter had two royal knights guarding her apartment, as well. His men saluted while the huge Welsh knights looked through him.

FitzWalter had his servant give him the heavy ledger, and he entered Duana’s apartment alone. Duana sat at the table, writing, and the idiot Welsh boy perched on a stool and watched through the window. The Saxon girl Prince Llewelyn had given his son squatted at the hearth, humming to herself and cooking something best left unexamined. As FitzWalter approached, Duana laid down her quill and covered her letter. She regarded FitzWalter coolly. “King Henry is not here. I have not seen him this morning.”

“I know,” FitzWalter responded, “and I know I am unwelcome.” He set the heavy ledger on the table. From near the window, the Welsh boy watched with the same stony silence as the Welsh knights. FitzWalter felt like these Welshmen bided their time until they could put a dagger between his shoulder blades. “I have come to ask a favor, though.”

"Have you brought me your accounts?" Duana said crisply.

"Father's accounts. I can make neither heads nor tails of them," FitzWalter said awkwardly. "I have run out of things to do during the siege, so I opened Father's ledgers from Pembrokeshire and found this mess." 

"There is no mess. I kept those records.” She stood, walked around the table, and opened the leather book she once spent hours poring over.

"Look closely, Duana," FitzWalter said. "You kept them in Irish Gaelic. You and Father read and write Gaelic. I do not, nor does my seneschal.”

“There is no Irish nobleman or priest in all of London who can translate?”

“The siege,” he reminded her. “Please tell me what I own and what I owe."

Duana trailed her finger down the parchment as if skipping randomly between memories. "This page is all payments: taxes, the Crown's share of his rents, and retainers for two-hundred knights,” she said. “This is expenses for the spring of 1215. This is the trip to Runnymeade to draw up the charter. This, I politely called a loan to King John rather than another extortion. Your father was unwell, and the sum so large I accompanied his knights to deliver it to Court." 

"It is the final entry, and in your hand." 

"Yes," Duana replied tightly.

A tense moment passed as FitzWalter did not ask all the questions swirling in his mind.

"My father was no traitor," FitzWalter said. "I will not speak ill of the Old King, but Father was a true and loyal vassal."

"Walter was a great man.” Her shoulders lowered as she exhaled. “If you will leave this, I will make notes for you. I never considered anyone might need to understand it besides your father and me."

"He probably thought it 'increased the security of the ledger.'" FitzWalter mimicked his father's stern demeanor.

"He probably did - in case someone plotted to discover how much Walter spent on dresses and trinkets for me."

"I am the Count of Pembroke, and I will buy silk and velvet by the mile, if it pleases me." He still imitated his father. "When you rule this land, you may dress her as you please. And this discussion has ended, son." He succeeded in earning a sad smile from her. "He adored you, Duana. I think- I think all women should be loved as he loved you."

Her smile faded. She looked down at the ledger again.

"Did you love him?" he asked but wanted to snatch those words back. 

"He was good to me," she replied softly.

"But did you love him as he loved you? Did you love him or did you spend years with him because it was safe and convenient? Or because he gave you no choice?"

"Yes, I cared for him." Her voice started to tremble. "Yes, I grieve him, if that is what you want to know. What is it you want, FitzWalter? Do not say it is for me to translate some old ledger."

"I want to know why I returned to England to find Pembroke Castle empty and you married to some Welshmen and Father's body hanging from the London Bridge."

After a moment, she answered tightly, "Because the King wished it." 

“Did you wish it? Any of it?”

“No.” She tilted her chin up. "You guide the new King, Fitz. I pray, teach him to be worthy of his crown."

FitzWalter worried his lips. He crossed his arms. "I have news of William. Everything has gone exactly as he said it would. The French are hungry and cold and thinly spread as they hurry to reconquer everything from Dover to Lincoln. He is picking them off like ticks and surrounding London for the final attack. He is sure London will hold, and the French will have nowhere to hide." 

Her posture relaxed more. "He is well?"

"In his messages, he makes no mention of being otherwise." 

"If I write a message, will you send it?" 

"I will have it passed through the gate at the next opportunity," he answered. “Tonight, if possible.”

The Welsh boy climbed down from the stool and brought a piece of smudged parchment to Duana. Gruffydd showed her the parchment and said in Welsh, “Eighteen.” FitzWalter saw a single line of tic marks. Duana responded reassuring. Clutching the parchment and never acknowledging FitzWalter, the teenage boy returned to the window. Duana’s gaze followed Gruffydd sadly. Duana looked at the pretty Saxon girl, who got up to stand with Gruffydd. The girl brought Gruffydd a spoonful of whatever she was cooking, and stroked his back.

“Prince Llewelyn said the girl was not to be in your apartment, Duana,” FitzWalter said. “I heard the Prince of Wales. You know what she is.”

“Prince Llewelyn is not here. I am to oversee the boy, and Mathilda comforts Gruffydd.” 

Hearing their names, both teenagers looked back at Duana. 

“Though Mathilda does not comfort Gruffydd in my apartment,” Duana reminded them in Welsh. In English, she added sternly, “Not in my chambers.”

The pagan girl nodded. Gruffydd echoed, “Not in Lady Duana’s apartment,” before looking out the window again, still holding his parchment. The girl resumed stroking Gruffydd’s back soothingly. 

"I did not do that, Duana," FitzWalter assured her quietly. "The Court was chaos when the Royal Council appointed me as regent. I did not know any of the Welsh boys still lived. I had to get Henry crowned, marry Isabelle, figure out-" He bit the tip of his tongue. "I no more planned to harm that boy than I planned to make you hate me.”

"I do not hate you, Fitz," she said tiredly, "I want to go home. I understand you must do what is best for King Henry and England, but I miss my children. I have a baby not five months old and a daughter not yet two years. I ache for them."

Duana looked so pale and sounded so weary he wanted to put his arms around her. Bring her warm wine and a blanket. Comfort her. 

FitzWalter had not anticipated being trapped in London during the siege, so Kym had remained in the army camp. FitzWalter would not have had Kym at Court with Duana there but he missed the company - and the other comforts a mistress offered. Not that FitzWalter got to choose his bedmate these days. A few hasty minutes with one of the maids had to do. King Henry insisted either FitzWalter sleep in the royal apartments or FitzWalter woke in his own bed to the company of a boy-King with bad dreams. 

FitzWalter wanted to exhale. To relax. To put aside the running of England, and the waging of war, and tutelage of a young King for a few hours. He wanted to sip brandywine and play chess and talk of things of no great importance. He wanted Duana to treat him as she used to - or at least, as she used to treat Father - instead of with politeness so cool it chilled the room. 

"Duana, I can have your children brought here,” he offered. “To Court. To be raised alongside the King. A king who adores you. If you wish. I can do it as soon as the siege ends, if you would want to remain in London."

She blinked. "What of my children's father?"

FitzWalter leaned back against the edge of the table. "Again, as you wish."

"I wish for you to release William from service. I wish to go home to Wales," she said curtly. "With my husband, to my children."

"I wish for you to be safe." The awful bruises on her face had healed but his memory of them remained vivid. He had seen William holding her roughly by her wrist. Duana’s lie about William striking her for not giving him another son: FitzWalter wondered if it had a grain of truth behind it. Though her veil covered it now, FitzWalter had taken note of a new scar high on her forehead. "Safe and well-treated. I cannot guarantee your safety if you are two-hundred miles away in a lawless, pagan land."

"Welshmen are not pagans. They do not have tails or breathe fire. They are men, the same as you."

FitzWalter shifted his feet and adjusted his hands. "Still, anything could happen to you."

"Anything could happen to me in London. Or Pembrokeshire. There are many monsters in this world, Fitz. You know as well as I. No man could protect me from all of them. Not even you."

At her words, a chill crept down his spine. He saw Edward’s evil face again: blood flowing from his nose even as he grinned and taunted FitzWalter about Duana. He remembered the raw rage he felt when Ed managed to strike her again, and the satisfaction of watching Ed’s body swing from the gallows. 

"Swear it," he said. "Give me your word, as if you were a man that the Welshman has never mistreated you. Swear William of Aber treats you as gently and as kindly as Father or I would, and he is a good and Christian husband."

She looked up at him with twin lines between her brows. "Why are you asking me these things?"

"Because I have heard otherwise." 

"What have you heard?"

He shook his head. "If you truly want to return to Wales, to remain as his wife, swear it. Or, if you do not want to return... You do not have to tell me why. It is enough that you wish it. I will see to the rest and ensure your children are with you."

"I swear William is a good man and a good husband. He would trade his life to protect me or my children. As would your father."

"As would I." 

Duana watched the rug and did not answer.

"It is settled. My mind is at ease." 

“It is not.”

“No, it is not,” he admitted, “but I will respect your wishes.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

She looked at the ledger again before she closed it. He wondered what memory brought the faintest hint of a smile to her face. Then, she watched her reflection in the mirror so long he wondered if she saw something FitzWalter did not.

“Duana?” 

“He would be proud of you.” She spoke as if talking to her reflection. “Your father. It cannot be easy to have so much resting on your shoulders."

FitzWalter clasped his hands in front of him. "Father made it look easy: molding a king, building a nation. Even your William leads armies as easily as others play chess, and he commands respect from men who would sooner spit on a Welshmen than follow one into battle. Father wielded power as though it was lightweight, but it is not. Power is seductive and dangerous and ugly. Evil men wield power thoughtlessly, but power weighs a good man down like heavy, wet clothing, and lashes him in dreams like an unexpected tree branch. Father taught me many things but he never thought to tell me that." 

Duana put a hand on FitzWalter’s arm. "Your father told me being powerful is like being a lady: if one must tell people one is, one is not. Noblewomen laughed at me because I did not speak French well and was learning to read and write, and that is what he said. You manage a great kingdom and raise a great king, Fitz. Do not expect either to be easy."

FitzWalter closed his eyes and, without thinking, leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. For a second there was warm, yielding, wonderful softness before she pulled away. 

"Do not-" 

"I am sorry." He tasted his lips. He stepped back once, then twice. “I will not.”

Duana hugged her arms around her body and looked at the floor. 

From the window, Gruffydd and the Saxon girl watched. 

“I-I did not mean to entice-” she said shakily, apologetically. 

"You did not. I should not have done that. I do not know what I was thinking. I was not thinking. I am tired and lonely and- Duana, forgive me. It will not happen again."

Without looking at him, she nodded.

"It will be over in a few days, Duana," he said, his voice calm and even. "Listen to the city walls; the siege engines have stopped. The French have taken the field against the English army. The final battle has begun."

“Fitz?" Duana glanced up. "You said the soldiers follow a Welshman into battle. They are following Prince Llewelyn into battle, yes?" 

"Yes," FitzWalter lied. 

*~*~*~*

Gwilym heard a woman's voice call through the peaceful darkness. He felt no pain. The night covered him like a warm blanket and he only had to sleep. 

The voice came again. Deciding he must be the one addressed, he tried to wake but felt too tired and light-headed. He got both eyes open. The stars swirled in lazy, unfamiliar patterns through the Heavens. This was not his world and not his Heaven. He floated; he felt the boat raising and dipping with the waves. 

It took Gwilym a moment to realize his bed was a funeral pyre. He lay on a soft pallet on a raft, wearing armor and holding his sword the way the pagans once venerated their high kings after death. Soon the men would light the kindling around him and the pyre would bear his body away until it became a tiny flicker on the horizon.

He drifted between Heaven and Earth, and the mysterious heavens felt closer. 

He blinked and started to shake his head to clear it. He felt a pain so severe his stomach tightened. He had not thought being dead would hurt so badly. Perhaps the raft bore him to Valhalla, the Viking Heaven. Once he reached it the pain would stop. 

The woman's voice called again. He turned his aching head slowly toward it. 

Gwilym was surprised the small figure standing on the dock looked hazy, like he saw her through a fog. Fog should not cover the water if the stars were so clear from his perspective; that made no sense. Of course, it made no sense for Gwilym to be on a funeral pyre like a pagan king, either. 

She seemed so far away but he heard her call as if she stood beside him. He recognized her. He could not see her clearly, but he knew her. He had known her for eons, and he left her after promising he would not. 

He felt the pyre rising and falling with the water, bearing him away. 

Gwilym felt so tired. He wanted to rest but he made a promise. 

She called to him again - not across the water but as if she was a part of him, a reminder, an echo. If he let himself die, a part of her would die with him. He carried her inside him the way a woman carried a child. 

Gwilym tightened his hands on his sword. He felt the familiar hilt beneath his fingers. He was a warrior. He could battle anything, even Death. Odin and his Viking Heaven would have to wait. 

He promised the woman he never lost a battle. 

He took a breath and felt a sharp pain in his ribs in counterpoint to his dully throbbing head. She looked miles away. Gwilym could not fathom how he would return to her, but not dying seemed a good start. 

*~*~*~* 

Little frightened FitzWalter but Duana frightened him now. She paced the sitting room of her apartment like a caged animal. Food sat uneaten, wine unconsumed. She had dressed but her hair remained uncovered and pinned up hastily. Over her dress, Duana wore a man’s bedrobe with an ink stain on the front. She clutched some dirty garment, and she had the same conversation with FitzWalter, over and over. 

"He is not dead," she insisted. “He promised me.”

Regardless of what FitzWalter said, that was her response. He had begun to fear for her sanity.

"He is not dead. You are mistaken. William wanders off, but he wanders back eventually. He is a hostage or-" 

"Duana," FitzWalter said softly, trying to soothe her, "the battle went exactly as William planned. The English Army surrounded the French and butchered them. Only the winning side takes hostages."

"He was not in the battle. William promised-" She looked away and seemed to grow smaller. "He promised me," she repeated emptily.

"They have looked among the wounded. He is not there."

"And the dead?" 

He hesitated. William must be among the dead soldiers hacked and trampled and mutilated to unrecognizable. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell. Yes, they think so. The men think he must be among the dead." 

"Bring me his body,” she demanded. “Bring me his body instead of his sword." 

FitzWalter stared at the floor. 

"He is still alive, and he is hurt and alone. I know it," she insisted. "You must keep looking." 

"His knights saw him fall. They found his horse wandering." 

FitzWalter recognized the garment she carried. She had a nobleman’s shirt, crumpled, and with stains from being worn beneath armor. Red stitches decorated the neck of the light fabric. The embroidery was not ornate, but something the seamstress took time to do – add a few red stitches to a shirt that would be worn beneath a red tunic. Fitz wore red but assumed the shirt was not his. Nor, he assumed, had Duana made herself a stained man’s bedrobe.

"If he was dead, I would feel it, and I do not." 

She had argued that several times, as well.

"I am sorry, Duana, but I will not give you false hope by pretending there is somewhere they have not searched." He stepped closer. “I will see you are safe. No one will force or harm you. I will have your children brought here-”

"Please, Fitz." Her voice cracked, and his heart ached. "Keep looking. Let me go-"

"No," he responded. "I will have his own knights swear we have searched, if you do not believe me, but I will not allow you to see the battlefield. You may not sort through pieces of men and try to decide which piece belonged to your husband. To the father of your children. No, Duana."

She draped the shirt over the back of a chair, rested her hand on it for a moment, and took a breath. "Whatever you want." 

He stared at her, not understanding, and found her teary blue eyes focused on his. 

"I will do whatever you want if you send out another search party to look for William. He is alive, but he is hurt. He needs help. I know it. Please, have your men continue looking. I will stay with you until William is found. And I will never tell him."

The noises of the castle - the servants in the hallway calling instructions, gossiping, laughing - became loud and her sitting room silent as he realized what Duana meant.

"You know my secrets," he answered. "You have for a long time, I think." He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb over hers. "If I thought it would help you, ease your pain, even get you to sleep, I would gladly take you to my bed. Love you as gently as I know how. I would have my marriage to Isabelle annulled and marry you as soon as the banns could be posted. I cannot say I have not thought about it. But I also cannot say I care for you and accept such an offer – however tempting, lovely girl. You speak out of fear and grief. He is dead, Duana. I will see you are safe and let you grieve. Once you are in your right mind, we will speak of such matters again. I would like that.”

"I am with child," she said evenly. "He is not dead. Please, Fitz. Keep looking."

"I will keep looking," he replied, and dropped her hand. 

*~*~*~* 

A sickening, throbbing pain reached Gwilym first, as though his whole head had a toothache. At a flash of light, he jerked his face away. He moaned and swirled back into the buoyant darkness for a few seconds. The hammer pounding on his skull subsided to steady agony. He tried opening his eyes again. Daylight drizzled through an old thatched roof.

Something cool covered his forehead. A hand. A woman’s hand. "Have you finally awakened?" a husky female voice asked. 

He tried to speak but stopped at the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. 

"Bois," she said, telling him to drink. She held a cup to his lips but spilled most of the water down his chin and neck. 

"...Happened? What happened?" he mumbled. The words left his mouth in French, though he thought a different language within his mind. "How did I get here?" 

"There was a battle. Many men died, but you did not. You have hit your head." 

Her face came into focus: deep brown eyes, square cheekbones and full, wide lips. He reached out to touch her, trying to see if she was real. She took his hand and rested her jaw in his open palm, nuzzling as though they were lovers. Gwilym pulled away. "Get... Get Scully. Dana." 

"Who is that?" She picked up his hand again and ran her finger down his bare chest. 

Images and sensations taunted him, coming close to his mind and fading into nothing. He remembered another pretty, dark-haired woman with a little boy on her hip and a hand on her belly. She told him to hurry home, this child was his. He remembered hearing hoof beats, feeling the weight of armor on his shoulders as he rode away. A fire - the smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh and the sound of a baby crying. A few too many women, far too many battles: those swirled by quickly. Frantically searching for something he could not find. A girl; he searched for a little girl. No, he found the girl, so now he searched for a woman with short red hair swirling around her face in the icy water. She was so cold. Someone hurt her and she was cold and afraid, but if he held her against him she would be safe and warm again. He remembered English soldiers, Templar monks, and a dying King. A gentle priest who was his friend. Tombs: cool marble under his fingertips as he cried. Spring. Bonfires. A Druid priest. Holding a minuscule baby in his arms and a woman pulling back the blanket to show him this was a son. Tired, happy blue eyes. Then blood - so much blood so quickly. A circle of stones. A battle that he was not supposed to be in, but he would be careful because he made a promise - an adduned - but his saddle girth broke and the ground rushed at him and a mace whistled near his ear and- And an eternity of nothing. 

"I am hurt. Please. Get Scully. Dana." 

This time, he heard no response. 

Gwilym must have moved his head, because the sunlight darkened like a candle snuffed out, flickered, and slowly returned. The stars reappeared, floated by, and he saw the purple and scarlet of sunrise. 

He heard someone moving nearby. He licked his cracked lips. "You? Who are you?" 

"My name is Dana," the same woman's voice answered on colloquial French, "You have been asking for me. Do you remember?" 

"No. No. Are you Dana?" He squinted at her, sensing something not right. 

She took his hand and held it between both of hers. "Rest." 

"My name? W-who am I?" 

She leaned close so he saw her pretty dark eyes again. She put his hand on her pregnant belly and stroked his cheek affectionately. "You are my husband." 

*~*~*~* 

It hurt to breathe. To move. Sometimes, it hurt to think. 

Gwilym stood in the doorway of the hut with his hands braced on the rough timber beams on either side.

"You are up,” the Norman woman said. “That is good." 

"I am up. I am not sure I am good." Gwilym waited for the trees at the edge of the clearing to stop swaying. The air felt cool and damp. Patches of snow lingered in the shadows. As far as he saw in each direction, the forest continued until the trees merged into blackness.

She wiped her hands on her mended skirt and got up from the fire to come kiss him. He let her at first, but pulled back. 

"What is wrong?" she asked. 

"Are you going to have a child?" he asked, and she nodded. "We should not be together while you are with child. It is a sin." 

She looked at him blankly. Perhaps he misspoke, or she misunderstood. His French was stilted and formal while hers was common. He wondered how long they had been married that they still communicated so poorly. "Dana-" He kept trying to call her that and failing. "How is it I call you Dana? That is not a nice name in Welsh - to call a woman 'under.'"

"It is my name." She turned away and added more wood to the fire. 

"Tell me again. What is my name?" 

"You do not remember?" 

He thought a moment. "Fox." 

"That is not a name; that is an animal." She tucked her long hair behind her ears. 

He grinned sheepishly. "It is. Whose land is this? Whose forest?" 

Her brown eyes looked like a shadow passed over them. "The King's."

“The French King?”

“There is one King.” 

"Who owns the fief? Who is my liege lord? You said there was a battle; for whom do I fight? Look at something. Look at my hands." Gwilym held them out. "I have no calluses except where I have held reins and a sword. Are these not the softest hands you have ever seen on a common soldier? There is a pale line where I wore a ring not long ago. Are you sure I am whom you say? Are we hiding from someone? This place seems very far from the world." 

"Feel." She took his hand and put it on her belly. "Your son is moving." 

"He is moving," Gwilym agreed in French, and said in Welsh, "He will be proud his father speaks this language." In Latin, "And this language." He added rapidly in Manx Gaelic and then English, "And this language, and this language."

She stepped back, giving him a wide berth as he stooped down. 

Using his finger, he wrote in the cold dirt 'Llwynog ap Gwilym.' "That says 'Fox, son of William,' and this-" He wrote another line. "Is that name in another language. And another, and another. Am I not the best-educated soldier you have ever seen, wife?" He emphasized the last word. "Even if I am a tradesman or a merchant, I should not read and write so well. I would not have carried a sword unless I am a knight." 

"You have hit your head hard. You should rest," she suggested. “Come to bed.” 

"We do not have a bed. We have straw and blankets on the bare ground, like peasants. Are you my mistress?" She kept skirting he was a Welsh nobleman and she was a French commoner, albeit a pretty one. “A spoil of war? Did I bring you here?”

“No.”

"I do not belong here in the forest, in this life. I want to know where I belong. I feel adrift, as though someone cut all the ropes and obligations holding me and set me free. Some men would envy that but I do not. If you do not know who I am, or if I cannot be that man any longer, at least tell me who I was." 

"You are my husband." Tears welled up in her eyes. 

"You keep saying that. Would you like to know what I think?" 

She shook her head. Her hair flew in all directions. 

"I think, wherever this battle was, your husband was one of the French soldiers. You followed the army, and went to the field afterward looking for your husband among the dead. You found me instead, and so pretended I am your husband. But I am not. Your husband is dead. I do not think this is my land or my home, and I will swear on my honor whoever 'Dana' is, it is not you."

"You are my husband," she insisted. "He is not dead. You are my husband!" 

He reached inside his filthy, torn shirt. That had been his first clue of something amiss: redressing and discovering the fabric, fit, and careful, tiny stitches of his clothing. Someone spent great time and money making his shirt and breeches. Given his right hand was clumsy, it was not he. Gwilym unpinned a length of green cord and held it between his hands. "Do you know what this is?" 

She looked up through her tears and shook her head again. 

"In Wales, it is tied around a couple’s hands to marry them in the old way. I know a woman gave this cord to me. I see her in my dreams. I remember that night. It was magical. I know our marriage is for a year and a day, and our year has not yet passed. I promised her I would come back for her. But I have tried for a week to remember this woman and all I know is it is not you," he said coolly.

"You are my husband. We are going to have a child!" 

He realized, despite his headache and confusion, her fragility. “But who are you?” he asked gently. “If you think I am your husband, who are you?”

"I am... No, no... I am..." 

"You do not know either, do you?" 

She sank to the cold ground and pulled her knees as close to her chest as her belly allowed. She shook her head ‘no’ and started to sob.

*~*~*~* 

Rain clouds hung low over the rooftops. Cold mist wove through the narrow streets and crept into doorways and old men’s bones. FitzWalter’s horse’s hooves made wet clopping sounds against the old Roman road through London. The last castle gate creaked as it lowered behind the knights. 

Servants brought torches to meet the returning search party. The rain drummed on his shoulders, and FitzWalter felt at least twenty years older. Duana, wrapped in a cloak and followed by her band of guards, met FitzWalter in the courtyard before he could dismount. Ten o’clock had passed; a woman expecting a child should have been abed hours ago.

"You did not find him," she said, more as a statement than a question. 

FitzWalter shook his head and swung down from the saddle tiredly. “His body is not there to find, Duana.” 

She looked up at him steadily. She remained fully dressed but stray curls crept from beneath her veil. The hem of her dress and cloak looked damp, and the wetness on her hood and shoulders suggested she had waited outside for some time.

“I would empty the Thames with a bucket for you if I thought William might be at the bottom,” he told her honestly, “but he is not. Prince Llewelyn arrived earlier. He says his men will search in the morning, but William’s body is not on the battlefield or in the woods around it, Duana.”

“Perhaps he is elsewhere, but he is alive.” 

A squire led his horse away. FitzWalter put his gloved hand on Duana’s shoulder. “He is not. My men have searched miles into the forest. Go inside; you will catch cold." She did not move. He offered, “Come. I will walk you upstairs. I must check on Henry, but would you like me to sit with you a while? Or send a priest to pray with you?”

“I see him, Fitz. In my dreams. He is alive.”

“Duana,” he began gently. He tried to think of some way to assuage her. “I know. I used to dream Father lived. Tomorrow, if the weather clears, I will take you to the battlefield. The dead have been claimed or buried, and the wounded moved. I will show you there is no place we have not searched.”

Her steady gaze did not soften or falter. He waited for her to agree.

"Open the gate, Fitz." She took a torch from one of the servants and stepped past FitzWalter. “Open it!”

His knights verged on obeying.

FitzWalter called, "Open the castle gate.” Following her, he asked, “Duana, where are you going?" 

She did not answer, so he hurried to catch up. 

"I am not your prisoner anymore. That was the agreement. William won your damn war. I am free to go. If you and all your royal knights cannot manage to find one man in an open field, I will find him myself." 

"You cannot-" He took three big strides and stepped in front of her. "You cannot get-" She dodged around him. "For Christ’s sake! Even if I let you walk through the streets at night, the city gates are closed. You cannot get out of London until morning." 

She spun around and informed him angrily, "Watch me!" 

The Welsh knights followed her, but the Norman knights stopped beside Fitz as Duana walked away. "My Lord? Do we stop her?"

"No, she is correct. She is a freewoman and a widow. She may go as she pleases, and she cannot go far. Follow her." William of Aber’s death was not yet widely known, and every knight inside the city walls belonged to either FitzWalter or Prince Llewelyn. The threat of Duana being kidnapped was minimal compared to the risk involved in trying to manhandle her into the castle. "See she is safe. And," he added, "make sure she does not find some way through the city walls the French army missed." 

*~*~*~* 

Duana knew she could not get out of London. At best, she could escape her lavish apartment and the Welsh knights William left to guard her. The knights stared at their boots and spoke in low, sympathetic voices, telling her how brave and noble William was and how sorry they were.

Prince Llewelyn came that evening, as had Sir Melvin - so drunk he could barely stand. They too, were sorry. Llewelyn was sorry William left him recuperating from a wound at Lincoln Castle. Melvin was sorry he had not killed every Frenchman in this world and the next. But they were both sorry. 

That William was dead. 

Duana swallowed a sob and squared her shoulders. She walked quickly and purposefully in no direction except away from London Court. 

She knew what William would advise: marry again, and marry before she left London and Fitz’s protection. Pick a powerful man good to her and good to the children. William’s land in Gwynedd passed nominally to Mab, but Duana had no knights or army to hold it. She would have to rely on Llewelyn or a new husband. The land Fitz gave her in south Wales became the property of any man Duana married, whether she agreed to the marriage and consummation or not. Kidnapping, marrying, and raping landed widows was a common practice for landless, opportunistic knights. 

Pick a man. Check his teeth and temperament, and pick like she was at the market. Pick a husband for herself and a father for her children. 

In that case, Duana wanted a man who told the most awful jokes imaginable. Who spouted off both brilliant and bizarre notions until people wondered at his sanity. Someone who could get a baby to calm far faster than Duana or a nursemaid. A man who defied the King for Duana but had never said he loved her except as they made love. A man who left silly gifts on her pillow and swore fairies did it. One who called Father John to exorcise the sprites and cursed the the fairies who brought her something the next night. That was what she wanted: a husband who would - and probably had - tell the Devil to piss-off for her sake. She wanted a man who, if asked if he still had a heart left to break, would deny it convincingly, unless one could see his eyes.

One of those would be fine, thank you.

She kept walking with her Welsh guards behind her and the royal knights behind them. Even her guards had guards. She truly could not escape her prison.

As she neared the closest the city gate and tried to decide what to do, a figure crossed the street in front of her. His dark cloak whipped behind him as he hurried through the drizzle. To her tired brain, he reminded her of William. He moved as though he decided his path long ago and now waited for the rest of the world to catch up. The man paused at the corner as if looking for someone. Not finding them, he continued along the cobblestones, dodging to avoid the puddles. 

Duana hurried after him. The royal knights, unhappy at following a woman on such a miserable night, cursed as they jogged to keep up. This was silly, Duana assured herself: following some man on his way home from a tavern because he walked like William. She should think of the baby and the sickness in the night air and go back to the castle so Fitz could scold her for being an impulsive child. 

"William. William!" She chased him through the dark city. Half the men alive were named John, Richard, or William. She figured the worst he could think was she was mistaken. 

He paused as though unsure if he heard his name. Seeming to decide not, the figure turned and faded into the shadows and mist. He vanished like a cloud had passed over the moon and the moon never reappeared.

Duana stopped in the center of the street, stunned and unsure what to do. 

Down an alleyway, she saw another man sprawled on his back on the wet street. Blood soaked his shirt front, and more blood spread on the cobblestones around him. An auburn-haired woman in an elaborate blue dress knelt beside him, desperately pressing her hands to his wounded chest. The bleeding did not slow, though. The man's chest stopped moving. As it did, he turned his head to look at Duana. 

He saw her, she realized, as clearly as Duana saw him.

He was the William who was not hers, the passionate man who stumbled into her dream as she carried Eimile. The woman struggling to save his life was his woman, his echo Duana in his world. The woman who carried his child, the woman he had lost. Two frightened children stood nearby. Duana saw a teenage boy the image of William, and a little blonde girl, both watching their father die.

Duana started toward them to help, but as quickly as the man appeared, he disappeared. The woman, the children, and the blood all vanished. The misty alley was empty.

"William." She turned in a circle to look around her. 

"Scully," she heard clearly, in William's voice but with a different accent. 

She ran down a side street, following his voice. She must be going insane, but she had no place else to go.

The big Welsh knights stayed close to her, looking concerned, and the royal knights argued they should make her return to Court. A royal guard reached to grab her, and Mawr stopped him. Mawr Hyll drew his sword, protecting her, and the other Englishman drew in turn. The men circled and threatened each other with neither set of guards understanding what the other said. 

While the men squared off, Duana turned and saw a dark-haired man sitting on a bench. His white shirt was open to the chest, soaking wet, dirty, and plastered to his skin. This William held a bloody cloth to a gash his head, and the rain made the blood run pink down his face. He wrapped his free arm around himself, shaking and trying to stay warm as he waited patiently for his Duana to return. 

This William had come to Duana before as well, in Wales, after Duana fell from her horse. He was a William, but different from the one she first saw as a child and from the William who had kissed her. He seemed lonelier, more haunted, more guarded with her than the others. She did not doubt his love, though. This man had walked into the bedchamber and taken her hand, anchoring her to the world and refusing to let her leave. He had lost one pregnant woman and he would not lose another. She and her child must live, and so she had. Like the other apparition, when she no longer needed him, he released her hand and slipped away into the shadows. 

He looked up and, like the other William, saw her. He smiled. Still holding the cloth to his head, he lay down on the bench like a tired child. He closed his eyes. He exhaled and did not inhale again.

She ran to him but, again, as she reached him, the figure vanished. 

If the Williams glimpsed her in the twilight between life and death, Duana wondered what it meant that she saw them in return. Perhaps she too was between worlds. Perhaps she was dying. 

Frightened, she stood in the center of the street. A half a block away, the guards realized she had left them behind. The knights sheathed their swords and tempers and started chasing her again. 

"William!" she called loudly. "Where are you? I need you."

Dogs raised a racket. Several townspeople yelled for her to shut up. She did not hear William’s voice again. The rain continued to fall. Her abdomen began to hurt; the baby protested at her running. 

"Muldar," she called desperately. “Mulder! I need you!”

To her right, his voice said clearly in English, "Here."

Rounding the corner, Duana sidestepped to avoid tripping over a man. He sat on the bottom step of a church, hunkered down like a beggar against the night. Standing in the middle of the deserted street, she turned in circles to survey every brick, every stone, as her torch sizzled in the rain. 

She saw no one. Not her William, and not a William who was not hers. She saw nothing except the sleeping city and the rain and the guards coming to take her back to the castle.

She listened and prayed as hard as she possibly could.

Perhaps she was tired and alone and afraid and her mind played tricks on her. Or she had gone insane. Perhaps she saw and heard ghosts. William did tend to wander off. Trust that man to wander into the next world without her and without even thinking to look back. 

Duana put her hand on her flat stomach. It cramped again, this time harder. After the pain passed, she tried to catch her breath. If she wanted this baby to live, she would have to stop looking. 

"Are you lost, my lady?" a man’s voice asked from behind her.

Duana whirled around, gasping at the hideous French spoken with a strong Welsh accent. 

The tall, dark-haired man watched her but kept back as if making sure not to frighten her. He lacked a tunic or cloak, and he rubbed his hands over his shirtsleeves to warm his arms. "There is a castle nearby. Are you lost?" 

He looked filthy and frozen, but he was real. This William was flesh and blood and standing not five feet from her. She pushed back her hood. "William? My God William! Where- Why- How- My God!" Duana lost all sense of propriety and forgot about the royal posse following her. She dropped the torch to the wet street and threw her arms around him. 

"I see we are acquainted." Gwilym put one hand tentatively on her back. “Greetings, my lady. Have you missed me?”

"Missed you?" she echoed, letting him go. "Where have you been for the last week and a half? I do not know whether to kiss you or knock you silly, William!"

"Am I William?" He looked down at her. "I thought so but I was not sure." 

"You are hurt." In the darkness, she saw cuts and bruises on his face. As the knights arrived with more torches, she said, "My God, your head. Of course, you are my William," Duana assured him. "William of Aber." 

"I did not believe I was William of London," he answered thoughtfully. "This was the closest city but I hope I do not live here. It smells foul, and the people are rude and incomprehensible." 

"This is not your home. You are the Lord of Gwynedd - Northern Wales.”

“I thought I might be Welsh.” He sounded pleased he had guessed correctly. “That seems my first tongue. Am I your kin, my lady?”

She took his hand, anchoring him as much as herself. “William, you are my husband. There was a battle; we searched for you. You must have found your way into the city. Damn it, William. You terrified me! And, and-" She picked at his torn sleeve as she started to cry. "You have ruined another shirt. I cannot take you anywhere." She sniffed. Her tears mixed with the rain and streamed down her face. 

She saw his dark eyes light up. "You are my Dana. No. Duana," he decided. "Of the Scully clan. I have been looking for you, Duana."

*~*~*~* 

"Choose," Llewelyn offered. He sat back on the sofa and shrugged one shoulder casually, as Gwilym did. "If you do not believe me, choose among your men - any knight - and ask. If Lord William is absent from London Court, where does Prince Llewelyn pass the night?"

They sat in Duana’s apartment. FitzWalter awaited Duana’s return, and Prince Llewelyn had come in search of FitzWalter. Gruffydd resumed his usual place at the narrow window, watching the sleeping city. The Saxon girl held a cup of ale and watched with him. Gruffydd toyed with her braids absently but did not pick at his own hair.

“Ask,” Llewelyn prompted carelessly.

FitzWalter pushed his chair a few inches back from the table. He repeated the question to the man guarding Duana’s door. The answer from the young Norman knight was immediate and contemptuous. "In Lady Duana's apartment." Several other knights nodded in agreement. 

Next, FitzWalter looked to Merfyn and asked in formal French, "At Welsh Court- At Dolwyddelan Castle," he amended, as if trying to use words Merfyn might understand. "In which chamber does Lady Duana sleep?"

Merfyn's head did not move but he glanced at Prince Llewelyn, who repeated, "Ou - where. Dort - sleep. At Christmas, A mon chateau - Ou dort-elle? Answer him truthfully."

Merfyn stood at attention, swaying, and answered as clearly as he was able. "Dans la chambre du roi." 'In the royal apartment.' 

"Where does Lord William sleep?"

"Avec les hommes." 'With the men,' Merfyn answered. 

"Where does Prince Llewelyn sleep in Aber Castle?" FitzWalter asked.

"Dans la chambre du Madam Duana."

Merfyn’s French accent was horrid but his meaning clear enough. FitzWalter leaned forward, interlacing his fingers and wrinkling his forehead. 

Llewelyn waited. Merfyn did not know why the questions were asked, and he remained too drunk to lie anyway. It did not matter. FitzWalter could ask all the questions he wanted; he would not find a detail missed in a plan Gwilym devised. 

"This is contrary to what Duana claims," FitzWalter told Llewelyn, still watching Merfyn carefully. "Duana says William fathered her children."

"Count the weeks, FitzWalter. Eimile is not William's." Llewelyn had rehearsed the words a hundred times and fortified himself with a big cup of brandywine. "I married her to William because King John wanted her married. William is fond of her, and she of him, but the children are mine. I am certain of it. We have an agreement." 

Gwilym had made Llewelyn practice in February, saying Llewelyn was not a convincing liar. “Believe it is true as you say it,” Gwil had advised. “Be as the Normans expect you to be: savage, coarse, enigmatic. You grieve your friend's death but it perplexes you the Crown would not understand you bedding another nobleman's wife.”

Llewelyn found himself repeating the words exactly, but also mimicking Gwilym's inflection and gestures. He remembered, after practicing with Gwilym four or five times and still not pleasing him, telling Gwil to piss off. Llewelyn was the Prince of Wales, for God's sake. His word was law. Gwilym had refused and made him start again, this time being sure not to cross his arms. “There is a great deal at stake here, Llewel, to Duana, to the children, to you, and to Wales. Be bold in your assertion. Speak as if she was Tang and you know every inch of her. Hell, you would have married Duana yourself if you thought she could give you a son.” At that, Llewelyn had told Gwilym again to piss off, and the second time truly meant it. 

There were so many pitfalls here, and he needed Gwil to guide him. Llewelyn could wage war on Hell so long as Gwilym planned the battle. Gwilym was too damn pretty and brilliant and troublesome to die. Llewelyn expected him to out-think Death, but that was not the case. Llewelyn arrived at London Court expecting to congratulate Gwilym on his victory, and instead found Duana a stunned widow wearing Gwilym’s bedrobe.

FitzWalter still did not seem convinced, so Llewelyn improvised. "William's mistress is at my Court while she is with child. Muretta is a pretty blonde peasant, a tavern wench previously. He has kept her for years. I visit Aber, and Will visits Dolwyddelan Castle. We are polite about it, for men you think barbarians." 

"Father," Gruffydd called from his perch on the windowsill. He watched some commotion outside. 

"I am here, son. It is fine," Llewelyn assured him in Welsh. He hoped the boy lived inside his own mind or amused himself with the girl and paid no attention to the conversation. "Just a minute."

Gruffydd whispered something to Mathilda in English and took a drink from her cup. Llewelyn saw Mathilda nod. The Saxon girl stayed close and said little. Llewelyn considered his purse of coins well-spent.

"The arrangement between you and Duana? Is it what you Welshmen call a hearth wife?" FitzWalter still seemed cautious. 

"Yes. Duana is my hearth wife. I acknowledge her children as my own."

"What of William's woman?"

"Muretta? A mistress." Llewelyn made progress if FitzWalter began sorting out legalities. "Gwilym does not acknowledge her child and, since he is dead, it will be sent away. I will see it is pledged to the Church but I do not want another man's bastard playing with my own children," he said, since that seemed a convincing addition. 

“Do not add,” Gwilym had warned Llewelyn months ago. “You are not imaginative, Llewel.” 

Llewelyn did make sure not to cross his arms. 

"What of the child she carries now?" FitzWalter asked. 

Llewelyn blinked. Gwilym had not specified that part of the plan. "Likely mine as well." 

"Likely?" FitzWalter echoed slowly. 

"Father," Gruffydd said again in Welsh, making Llewelyn and Merfyn jump out of their skins. "Uriah is here. King David will not have Bath-Sheba."

The Saxon girl watched something outside the window.

"Just a minute, son.” Llewelyn returned his attention to the Kingmaker. “FitzWalter, you have my word as well as Sir Melvin's. You have witnesses among your men. We all mourn Lord William. Give me leave to take Duana and my son, and return to Wales." 

FitzWalter nodded his approval. "I will have it entered in the record. Do you call the boy 'Mab' or 'David'?" 

"David," Llewelyn said. “Dafydd ap Llewelyn, presumptive heir to Wales." 

He hoped Gruffydd did not hear that sentence, either. 

Gruffydd liked being near Duana, and sometimes pretended (or possibly, believed) Duana was his dead mother. “The big Norman man kissed her,” Gruffydd had informed Llewelyn earlier, angrily. “While you were away, Father, he kissed her. She did not want him to.” Duana said nothing to Llewelyn of the kiss, but Gruffydd had shown his father the dagger hidden in his boot in case FitzWalter tried to kiss Duana again.

"I will speak with Duana,” FitzWalter said. “If she wants to leave with you and your son, I will consider the matter. If she wants to remain in London- She is a widow under the King’s protection; if she wishes to remain in London, you and I will speak again." FitzWalter stood, looking tired. "Are we finished?" He asked as though he was not the most powerful man in England.

"He is back, King David. You do not get Bath-Sheba," Gruffydd said cryptically in his singsong voice. He spoke in Welsh, though he was fluent, or had been, in French. He whispered something to Mathilda. She glanced at FitzWalter and giggled. 

"What is it, Guto?" Llewelyn thought his son talked nonsense. Uriah was the soldier in the Bible King David had sent out to die in battle so the King could have Uriah's wife, Bath-Sheba.

"Uriah." The young man pointed out the window. "Too bad for King David."

Llewelyn looked over Mathilda’s shoulder. At the moment, Gruffydd obviously knew Duana and which man was her husband. Llewelyn waited until he trusted his eyes. "Not Uriah, son. Lazarus." 

FitzWalter looked as well. Duana and a battered-looking William walked slowly, hand-in-hand, toward the castle. Half a dozen Welsh and Norman knights followed them like a pack of herd dogs with two sheep. 

"Jesus Christ," FitzWalter murmured. "By the Virgin Mary, I swear I will never again underestimate Duana if she says she will do something. Christ!" 

"No, FitzWalter," Llewelyn replied. “Not Christ.” He looked down at his friend, feeling a giddy sense of relief. "Christ took three days to return; William took eleven. Will had to borrow a horse.”

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth VII: Adduned


	3. Chapter 3

Hiraeth VIII: Amau

*~*~*~*

Certainly, people were mistaken about Gwilym being this woman's husband. However, Gwilym prayed no one realized the mistake until morning. At Lady Duana's invitation – and with courage bolstered by poppy tea and brandywine – he found himself in her enormous bed. Despite legions of servants, Lady Duana had fed him and bathed him, and barbered and bandaged his head. Once they were alone, she had issued an invitation no sensible man would decline. "Come. Let me demonstrate how much I have missed you."

Gwilym had flashes of memory. His mind's eye saw Lady Duana struggling with him in a bedchamber, afraid, trying to get away. He recalled finding splotches of blood on a fine bedsheet. Dancing with her in a field near a bonfire and feeling the warmth of the flames on his skin. Swearing a life for a life, his life for hers. But the memories blurred together like smeared ink and made no coherent story.

Her blue eyes, the slope of her shoulder and waist, the shadows of her nipples beneath her chemise... This beautiful creature belonged with whichever nobleman occupied this luxurious apartment. Gwilym could not fathom he was that man.

He recalled the mechanics of lovemaking. He understood this woman consented. Still, for a long time, he merely lay beneath the covers and studied her wondrously. 

She cupped his face with her palm. As her thumb stroked the newly-shaved skin, he hoped she could not feel him trembling. Not with fear. Nor merely with lust. Inside him, at her touch, something primal and powerful whipped like a ship's sail in a storm.

"You are so lovely," he whispered hoarsely. 

She moved closer. He exhaled in shaky anticipation before she kissed him. The trembling became an exquisite vibration at his core.

He put his hand on her waist. Closed his eyes. Parted his lips. As they embraced, Gwilym would have sworn he floated several feet above the bed.

If this was a dream, he chose never to wake.

If he was not her husband, and this a sin, he chose damnation. 

Lady Duana's mouth moved against his. Open, warm, welcoming. Everywhere her fingertips brushed, his skin shivered. Her body radiated heat. His breaths came surprisingly quick for a man merely kissing a woman. He gathered up the hem of her chemise clumsily. "Will you take this off, my lady?"

"Of course." She seemed faintly amused. 

He helped pull the fabric over her head. In the candlelight, as she lay back, her pale skin glowed and her auburn curls glistened. He touched her breast. As he caressed it, his hand shook and his breath caught in his throat. 

Duana asked worriedly, "William, are you well?"

He said "I am," in a whisper as unsteady as the rest of him.

He continued watching his hand as he drew invisible circles around her nipple with his thumb. The pink nipple hardened. Her chest rose and fell. Below her breasts was a soft expanse of white abdomen and below that, a patch of hair the darkest shade of auburn before brown.

He smelled her. Some corner of his mind recognized the scent. He either remembered or imagined the feel of sliding his fingers down that silky hair and into her slick entrance. How she would move, moan. How it felt to be inside her.

She lay nude, her eyes closed, seeming to enjoy his touch. The blanket covered Gwilym from the waist down and clean brasiers covered him beneath that. Beneath his underclothes, his erection grew so hard it ached.

No matter how many times he commanded his hand, it remained on her breast rather than between her legs. His prick ached, yet he stayed beside her in the bed. He might have been a young bridegroom on his wedding night: painfully aware of the goal yet unskilled in mounting an approach.

Lady Duana asked softly, "You do not remember being with me, do you?"

Since shaking his head hurt, he answered aloud and honestly. "I do not, my lady." He swallowed. Perspiration beaded on his chest in the cool bedchamber. 

She opened her eyes, and Gwilym wished he had lied.

She pushed up on her elbows. He moved back uncertainly. The flame continued nibbling at the candle, and the bed curtains kept out the rest of the world. He held his breath. She whispered, "Lie back," and time became a magical, slow-flowing tide. 

Gwilym sank back against the bed pillow. Duana untied the waist of his brasiers. He lifted his hips to let her slip them off, baring his erection and leaving him naked. 

She kissed his neck, his earlobe. She teased his nipples until they rose in hard peaks. She traced the line of dark hair on his abdomen. As her fingers moved lower, he whispered, "This must be how new brides feel."

That sounded casual and humorous in his head, but once spoken the words hung beneath the canopy in awkward clumps he longed to take back.

He gasped. A shiver passed through his body as she touched his prick. His muscles tightened, his feet shifted, his toes curled. He raised his head to watch, but his bandaged wound throbbed dully. That, and her hand around his shaft, made him moan. 

"Lie back," she repeatedly softly. "Close your eyes." She kissed below his naval and plotted a path downward with her mouth. "Let me love you."

After another shaky breath, Gwilym gave a slight nod of consent - barely a tilt of his chin - and returned his head to the pillow. As instructed, he closed his eyes. He was the string on a lute wound tight, quivering in anticipation. Her hand stroked his cock as a man might touch himself and moved lower. To his balls, caressing, swirling the hair beneath her fingers. Pulling. He felt a tight, wet, intimate embrace which must be her mouth. 

His lips formed the unintelligible words of desperate pleasure. He grasped fistfuls of the bedsheet. 

A hand around his prick moved in time with her mouth. He felt her tongue but also the lightest rake of her teeth. Her fingertips, in languid strokes, passed over his balls again. And lower. And lower still, until he worried at their destination. A hand guided his leg aside. Against his better judgment, he let it. 

With three fingers, she pressed behind his balls, first forward and back, and in small circles until his arousal became the precipice of orgasm. Her teeth grazed his prick again. The tide of ecstasy receded before cresting but took him so close it felt torturous.

One of her hands slid lower still. 

He kept his eyes smashed shut. "Christ, my lady. What- What are-" 

Her mouth left his cock long enough to whisper, "Relax."

Dry laughter bubbled in his chest. "Relax? Lie back and relax? Do you promise to be gentle?" He thought the last question imminently pertinent.

Her voice said, "No," drawing out and caressing the French word as she continued caressing him. "Do you consent?" 

Gwilym bit his lower lip, closed his eyes even tighter, and managed another little nod.

*~*~*~*

He wanted to stay here – buried deep inside her, his body on hers, his hands on hers, his mouth on hers. He did not question Lady Duana's pleasure. Men three rooms down did not question Duana's pleasure. As for Gwilym, his toes might uncurl by mid-summer. 

He shifted back and rolled naked to lie beside her. Unfortunately, the painful throbbing in his head returned to compete with the pleasant throbbing from the rest of him. Like a drunkard confronted with sunlight, he winced and brought a hand to his bandaged forehead.

Duana raised her head from the pillow and pushed back her tangled curls. "The wound is aching?" She sounded concerned. 

"Well worth the trade," he promised. "My lady, this is surely the nicest welcome any man has ever received." He looked at the elaborate, shadowy bed canopy a few seconds. He started to take her hand but lost his nerve; instead, he passed off the movement as smoothing a wrinkle in the sheet. He inhaled and, after one false start, succeeded in stroking her bare shoulder. "I-I did as you asked. You said... Are you all right?"

"I am quite well."

She rolled to her side. Her finger traced a path down the dark hair on his chest. She paused to outline a scar on his shoulder before resting her hand on his abdomen. His belly quivered again at the touch.

Gwilym did not meet her eyes. He gathered up his courage and told her shoulder, "That is 'fellatus' - what you did at first."

Her hand rubbed his abdomen affectionately. "You remember that, but you cannot remember Prince Llewelyn?"

"I assume Prince Llewelyn does not do that to me," he responded, and she laughed. "His eyes follow you, though."

She made a noncommittal and disinterested sound.

"As do the regent's. Count Marshal FitzWalter. I am unsure he is truly pleased with my return."

This time she did not respond at all. 

Aside from recognizing her, his life was flashes of images and sensations. He needed to know so much. Memories flickered like candles lit in the darkness of his mind, letting him see for an instant, but leaving more questions than they answered. 

"Where were you, William? Do you remember?" Duana asked softly. "Fitz told me he searched the fields and forests. Did he truly?"

Gwilym told her of the pretty French woman, and waking in a hut deep in the forest. "She is with child, and alone in a foreign land. In her grief, she thought I was her wounded husband. For a time, I thought so as well."

"Did you?" she asked neutrally.

"For several days."

There was a hesitation before Duana responded practically, "Well, you did not remember."

He moved his head carefully to look at her. "We have a child." He fitted a few pieces together. "You and I. A son. A son from the MayDay bonfires." 

She nodded. "We have a son from last year. Mab. David." Her hand resumed caressing his chest. "Eimile, our daughter, is a toddler. Before you and I married, you had two children with a woman named Diana. They are with God, as is she. Our children- William, it is complicated, and Prince Llewelyn made it more so."

Though neither was her native tongue, she spoke to Gwilym in Welsh interspersed with French. Occasionally, he heard a word from English or Latin or Irish-Gaelic. Every word Duana used, Gwilym understood, as if she created a unique language for him.

"Was Diana tall, pretty, with dark hair?" he asked. "I lived with her. I was younger. The girl was my daughter, but the boy-" He tried to make sense of the images he remembered. "Dafydd. Dafydd saved his sister from a fire, but Diana died."

"She was your hearth wife. Your David with Diana would be the age of Prince Llewelyn's son."

"Who was the blonde woman? Was the child she carried mine as well?"

Duana did not answer, seeming not to know.

"Tablonde. A commoner more my age than yours. Quite pretty. She speaks Welsh. I see her in a tavern but also in a nobleman's office and bed chamber."

"Muretta?" He detected a displeased note in her voice. "She is your tanner's wife and my maid."

"Muretta. But she is not a maid." His fragmented recollections of the blonde suggested pleasant nocturnal events best unshared with a wife. He had thought them old memories or he would not have asked Duana.

A long silence spread out between them. "You told me her child is not yours," Duana said evenly. "You had not been with her in years."

"I am sure that is the truth." He saw other women in his mind, but mostly he saw Duana. "Who is the Templar priest?" he asked next. "He is my old friend, and I see him holding our son."

"Father John. He was your boyhood tutor, and now your friend and advisor. He is on Crusade."

"He is with the Norse woman. They have twin daughters."

Her hand stopped stroking again. "Father John? You told me he was on Crusade. How does our priest have twin daughters?"

Gwilym wrinkled his brow, trying to think, but stopped because it hurt. Giving up that line of inquiry, he toyed with her hair. "I have four children?" 

"Do not sound so surprised. The King and Queen of Spain have seventeen children. Sir Melvin has twelve and Prince Llewelyn seven - a few even with his wife. And-" She paused. "I think, perhaps you are to have a fifth."

The pleasant haze of poppy and brandy and sex evaporated. "You are with child?" Even at her request, he should not have been with her so roughly. "A child I fathered?"

"I am not certain," she said, "but I think so. Fitz knows; he may tell you if I do not."

Gwilym stroked her sweaty skin and tangled hair, counting the months. If they had a son from the May bonfires last year, he was born in late-winter. Spring had barely arrived. It was soon for her to be pregnant again. "Ah," he said. He should feel jubilant, but he did not. 

"You wanted another son," Duana said after another awkward silence, but Gwilym wondered what had possessed him.

*~*~*~* 

FitzWalter expected a servant, but Duana answered her apartment door. She put her finger to her lips, signaling FitzWalter to be quiet. At mid-morning, Duana had the shutters closed and a few candles burning. In the dim sitting room, William lay on the sofa covered with a blanket.

"He was awake earlier," Duana said quietly. "I gave him tea to ease his headache and light hurts his eyes." She adjusted the blanket over William. "What is it, Fitz?"

"I come at the behest of the ladies at Court. This morning, four separate noblewomen bade me check on 'that handsome Welshman' and his head wound. It seems your husband causes a few female hearts to flutter." FitzWalter looked down at William. "Llewelyn is correct; he is rather pretty."

William's eyes opened, and he looked at FitzWalter unhappily. William's hand eased from beneath the blanket. He held up his index and middle finger at FitzWalter in a gesture vulgar among the Welsh archers.

Duana scolded William and tucked his hand away. "He has had poppy," she told FitzWalter by way of excuse. To her husband, she said, "Fitz is jealous. He wishes Llewelyn called him 'pretty,' as well."

William's frown became a tired smile. He closed his eyes again. 

Watching them, FitzWalter did not question her affection for William. Each time FitzWalter heard William speak of her children - in the tavern months ago and a few times in camp - it was with genuine devotion. But FitzWalter had seen Llewelyn with her too: when Ed struck her, and later, talking about Duana watching over Llewelyn's son. FitzWalter detected a note of something more than familiarity, at least on Llewelyn's part.

Late last night, after getting Henry to bed, FitzWalter returned to Duana's apartment. Duana refused to let him send for a doctor, which he thought unwise given the swollen cut on William's head. FitzWalter wanted to ask a second time but instead, at her apartment door, encountered sounds suggesting Duana was otherwise occupied. Either Llewelyn was with her or William had finished his bath and felt up to some rough sport with his pregnant wife. Or both. FitzWalter had not imagined it; the brute of a Welsh knight guarding her door had smirked at him.

"Does he remember anything?" FitzWalter asked quietly.

"Fragments. This morning, he asked after his favorite horse and his hunting dogs." She moved an empty cup from the table to a tray. "I think, as the swelling goes down, his memories will return. He will not like his haircut, though."

William shifted on the sofa. His arm escaped the blanket and hung limply inches above the rug.

"Henry asked if you would come outside," FitzWalter said. "It is a lovely morning. Leave your knights to keep watch, and let William sleep."

Duana looked at William again. Her husband snored softly. He had no need of anyone except Morpheus. She acquiesced.

FitzWalter had told her a portion of the truth; the spring day was lovely. In the courtyard, flowers sprouted and birds gathered sticks and stems for their nests. The sun, nearly forgotten after the long winter, spread its warm fingers out on the new green grass. FitzWalter guided Duana to a bench. He sat next to her, a polite distance away. He leaned forward, clasped his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees.

The remaining Welsh knight stood close, and the two royal guards stood a few paces behind him. 

"The King is not outside, Fitz," Duana observed neutrally. "Also, I suspect he has not asked for me."

FitzWalter looked at the line of maids and footmen near the closest door, awaiting any need either of them might have.

Sounding hesitant, she asked, "What is it, Fitz? I know you spoke with Prince Llewelyn."

FitzWalter nodded. As much as Llewelyn's claim about Duana's children disturbed him, FitzWalter's business with Duana was even less pleasant.  
"I cannot think of a polite way to say it," he responded truthfully. "You are with child. I thought I would say nothing but it seems I must." Reluctantly, FitzWalter signaled a servant who, a moment later, reappeared with a package. "Because we could not find William's body, I had my seneschal intercept any packages for you. I did not want an angry Frenchman sending you William's severed head." He opened the package and gave her the letter atop the fabric inside. "This came for you from the Earl of Chester."

Duana untied the letter and read it quickly.

"Is this William's seal and signature?" FitzWalter asked.

"It is. Why do you think this unpleasant? He instructs me to pay for a thirteen-year-old servant girl named 'Lucy' and see she is sent to Wales. I handle his accounts as I handled your father's. There is nothing unusual about this."

"He pays quite a sum for a servant girl."

She shrugged and told FitzWalter William bought dragon eggs, petrified lightning, unicorn horns, and three different maps to Camelot; she did not even question it anymore. As of late, he collected jasper stones, telling her they were dragon droppings.

"Duana, I think William is paying her bride price as well. William and Llewelyn spent the night in Lincoln Castle after Llewelyn was wounded. William must have spent the night with this girl. Afterward, he wanted to keep her. I do not expect him to be faithful to you, but I cannot stomach he would send you the bill."

"He would not do that," she said coolly. "I think you are mistaken. In fact, I-" 

"The Earl of Chester sent the bed sheet, Duana. There is no mistake." FitzWalter watched her face as she reached further into the parcel. She touched the spots of dried blood on the fabric. "I will provide a dowry for her and see she is well-cared for in Lincolnshire. If this child has a child, it will be fostered there."

For a long time, they sat in pained silence in the pretty sunshine.

"Why do you do this, Fitz?" she said. "Why hurt me?"

"I do not want to hurt you," he said. "I want to see you are not hurt. Men who enjoy young girls- I do not want you with a man like that. I am nominally married, but also Kingmaker and Count of Pembroke. Not a month passes I do not receive offers of marriage from noblemen with daughters this age. Given the stakes, each father wants the marriage done and consummated so it cannot be easily undone. Duty or not, Duana, if I could not string out my annulment a few years, I think I would have to cut my finger and convince the girl to lie. Clearly, your husband does not have that problem."

"He is not like that." 

"I heard you last night, Duana. I assume William was with you. There is no excuse for that, even if you were not with child."

"That is not your concern."

"Should I be concerned you carry your third child in barely two years? Or his pregnant mistress has run of your home in Wales? He cannot even keep her in the village? Should I be concerned about the heresy Edward spoke of? Taking you among the Druids, practicing fertility witchcraft? What of you and Llewelyn? Is it true? That is barbaric: passing you back and forth like an eating knife or tankard of ale. If your husband sent you to another man's bed, I will see he hangs."

"You father once tried to send me to your bed," she said, and clasped her hands over her mouth.

As FitzWalter stared at her, stunned, Duana covered her face with her hands and breathed raggedly. 

The large Welsh guard came closer.

"Please do not cry," FitzWalter pleaded. "The Welsh are warriors: hotheaded, uncivilized pagans. I would give him my army to lead, but not my stepmother to wife. Unfortunately, the Crown did give you to him and so it is the Crown's place to object to your treatment. I object. I object with every fiber of my being to see you shamed and mistreated and led astray."

"Fitz, I am sure there is an explanation for this girl." Her voice trembled. "He does not remember it. Llewelyn was wounded; perhaps it is his blood. Or another man did this, and William felt sorry for the girl-"

"Yes, perhaps some faceless brute snuck in and deflowered her as she slept in your husband's bed," FitzWalter said sarcastically. He conceded, "I can think of plausible excuses for the girl. William would not be the first man to discover too late a brazen girl who looked seventeen was neither seventeen nor truly brazen. What I cannot do is excuse everything else."

"You love this," Duana accused him. "Planting doubts about a man you know I care for."

"I would never have shown you the package if William had died. No, I take no pleasure in this. But you did not tell me the truth, Duana, and I will not send you back to those God-forsaken Welsh mountains with him." 

Duana looked up, her face and eyes red. "Do not harm him."

"Why not? And do not say 'because he is my children's father,' because I am not even certain of that."

"What is it you want, Fitz? Me in exchange for not charging William as a heretic? Has my William been found, and so I am to keep my end of our bargain?"

"We had no 'bargain.' All I want is what I said: to know you will not be hurt again." He exhaled and promised, "I will not harm William; you have my word."

She looked at him. He read the hurt and desperation in her face. 

"Is it true, Duana?" FitzWalter asked gently. "Did William or Llewelyn take you among the Druids? Does William allow witchcraft?"

"You are going to harm him."

It was true. The next Prince of Wales - likely the biggest thorn in King Henry's side after the French King - was born of witchcraft. FitzWalter worried Henry would be a weak king. Henry would, at least, be a king who needed strong allies and frail enemies. The best thing the Kingmaker could do for England was have William burned at the stake and that unnatural baby boy drowned. The best thing for Henry was for Wales to have no heir, and to fight amongst themselves for the next fifty years rather than troubling England.

"William is a heretic. The King-" He looked again at her frightened face. "No, I will not harm him. I have given you my word," he said. "Nor will I harm your son. But I will not let William or Llewelyn take you back to Wales. I will see you are someplace safe."

As if she had not heard him, Duana sat staring at the bloody bed sheet. Covering her face again, she leaned forward and began to sob. 

FitzWalter snapped his fingers for the servant to get the parcel away.

"Perhaps he had far too much to drink," she said hoarsely, into her hands. "Or you are right, he did not realize she was so young."

"Perhaps." FitzWalter answered kindly, which upset her further. 

"I am not dim or blind or naive," Duana responded angrily. "I understand why you believe as you do, but I know my husband." She took a ragged breath. "I have never known him to be unfaithful."

FitzWalter decided to keep his mouth shut. Any woman who thought her husband faithful was foolish. In the tavern, FitzWalter saw William go pouting to London because FitzWalter would not give him the redheaded prostitute. Since that night likely led to Duana's pregnancy now, FitzWalter regretted not, as William suggested, making do with the blonde.

Duana lowered her hands from her face and looked at him. FitzWalter's silence was an answer.

"He prefers girls who resemble you, if it is any comfort," FitzWalter said. "Slight. Auburn-haired. Young."

She stared at him for a few seconds, and her face crumpled. She leaned forward, covering her head with her arms as if trying to protect herself.

"I will have your things moved. The Crown's guards, not Llewelyn's or William's, will be with you. You may not see William nor Llewelyn until my man can speak with this girl and I have satisfactory answers from the Welshmen." He raised his hand to put it on her back, but lowered it without touching her. "I will deal with this matter, Duana. I want you to rest, to care for yourself and your child. I will speak with William."

"You will not harm him?"

"I will not harm him," he promised a third time. "Duana, Prince Llewelyn acknowledges you as his hearth wife. Do you acknowledge him?"

She raised her red, wet face. "Oh, I do not know, Fitz," she answered miserably. "Whatever William says. Whatever Llewelyn says."

"Yes, that does seem to be the way of things," he said tightly. 

To his surprise, she stood and started to walk away. Before her third step, she stumbled and swayed drunkenly. FitzWalter grabbed her arm, steadying her before she fell. He guided her to the bench. Her Welsh guard looked torn between helping Duana and running FitzWalter through for touching her. The servants brought cups of water, fans, and blankets until the dizziness passed and Duana ordered everyone away. She tried to stand again, but FitzWalter pulled her back down by her wrist.

"It is the baby," she protested. "Let me go."

"I know it is the baby. You are not well. Where is it you want to go?"

"I want to go for a walk, Fitz," she told him angrily. "I want out of this castle. I want time to think. To breathe. William is resting, and I- I cannot be here right now. Not with you, and not with him."

"I understand. I do. But you are not walking." He spoke to a servant, who ran for the royal stables. FitzWalter stood and offered Duana his arm. "Slowly," he reminded her.

She stood slowly this time, and held his arm as he walked her to the stables. The spring breeze fluttered her skirt and veil, and her hand on his forearm felt trusting.

By the time they reached the stable, a groom had a docile mare saddled and ready. Four armored royal knights sat on their horses, ready do ride. Duana's Welsh guard began to protest. 

"This is Richard FitzMatthew," FitzWalter told Duana, and nodded to one of the knights. The knight removed his helmet, revealing a white beard and aged but piercing blue eyes. "He was King Richard's Captain of the Guards, and Father's, and I trust him with my life."

The old knight bowed his head to Duana graciously. 

"Tell William's knight to remain here," FitzWalter said. "To wait for you with the two royal knights. You may ride out of the castle, out of the city, even - but not with a Welsh knight."

Duana said something in Welsh to the knight in the red tunic. The gist of it was she wanted him to stay with William. The big guard seemed reluctant but relented. The two royal knights stationed themselves at the stable door to wait, and the Welshman stood in front of them, shading them like a great oak tree shaded ferns.

FitzWalter lifted Duana onto the palfrey and made sure she was secure in the sidesaddle. He handed the mare's reins to Richard FitzMatthew and gave the order to open the castle gate. 

As FitzWalter watched Duana ride away, his seneschal, Geoffrey, appeared at his elbow. 

"Did you tell them Lady Duana is with child?" FitzWalter asked quietly.

"I did. To travel slowly. To stop any castle, invoke the King's name, and let her rest. I told them your order: any man who harms her or allows her to be harmed is dead. I sent a messenger to Countess Isabelle, as well, to expect Lady Duana at Pembroke Castle. I will station extra guards at the gate in case Lord William or Prince Llewelyn tries to go after her."

FitzWalter nodded his approval. Those were his exact orders.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym woke from his idyllic dream to a nightmare.

At first, he thought nothing of Lady Duana's absence. She seemed a dutiful wife but she must have other things to attend. Embroidery. Playing lute. Picking flowers. Petting little dogs. Whatever noblewomen did all day. 

Gwilym washed and dressed. As the fog lifted from his mind, he opened the shutters. Hours passed. He examined what remained of his hair. He looked through Lady Duana's things: her clothing, her sewing, a book she had been reading. In a jewelry box he found a small wooden cross tied to a ribbon. He held the cross to the light, trying to remember seeing her wear it. Servants brought food and fresh wine. A large Welsh knight peered in to check on him. Gwilym's head still hurt, so he napped on the sofa. In the afternoon, Prince Llewelyn and his odd teenage son and the son's pagan mistress came, all wearing traveling clothes. Gwilym said Duana had been gone some time, and Llewelyn raised the alarm.

They found one of Duana's guards still guarding Gwilym and an identical man standing unhappily at the stable. 

Marshal FitzWalter came. With a half-dozen knights, a letter bearing Gwilym's seal, and a bloody bed sheet. The big apartment felt too confining. Those were the images Gwilym saw in his head: the other women, Duana struggling, crying, pulling away. Blood.

FitzWalter sat at the table. Llewelyn paced in front of it. Gwilym stared past both men and at his reflection in the large looking glass. His hair was cropped short and his face shaved clean. The man in the looking glass watched him dully. 

"Has Duana seen this?" Prince Llewelyn gestured to the sheet. 

"Yes," FitzWalter responded. "She asked to leave London Court, and I gave her safe passage. Explain this: why her husband would be so rough with a young girl, why his mistress is her maid, who truly fathered her children. I am concerned for her. Duana is dear to me."

"You have interfered where it is not your place, FitzWalter!" Llewelyn said angrily.

"You forget to whom you speak," FitzWalter replied icily. "She was my stepmother and, for her sake, I will interfere where I please."

Gwilym watched his reflection. The dull ache in his head spread down his chest and to his abdomen. The twin image was him, but not. The man he saw in the looking glass – something inside that man had died. He was empty. Even his skin looked dead. Gwilym raised his own numb hand, surprised to see blood pulsing through the veins. The flesh reflected at him looked battered and gray. Gwilym saw his reflection blink.

"I will remind you to whom I speak," Gwilym heard Llewelyn hiss. The Prince braced his hands on the table and loomed at FitzWalter. "You are not your father; Duana is not your wife. You are a smitten boy with too much power. There is some mistake about this girl; I will swear it on my honor."

"The same honor accompanying you to your friend's bed with your friend's wife?" FitzWalter shot back.

Gwilym's reflection smirked; Gwilym had not.

"How did Duana convince you to mount such a large, lengthy search after the battle, FitzWalter? What did she promise?" Llewelyn asked. "My son saw you touch her, FitzWalter. Touch your former stepmother and another man's wife. Tell me of your honor."

"Have you," FitzWalter responded indignantly, "touched her?"

Without answering, Llewelyn said, "Know a man for decades. Watch him bleed for you and weep over graves and tell me what you would do as his friend. If you ever have more than an empty bed and a decree giving you control over a boy-king, tell me of marriage. Brag of your chivalry, but if you will be laughed at for taking back your wife or you will give your children away to ensure their safety, then you may tell me of love," he said scornfully.

FitzWalter flushed. Llewelyn stepped back. As if he thought he had said too much, the Prince closed his mouth and crossed his arms unhappily.

"You are not a man," Gwilym's reflection accused him. Gwilym stared at the dead man in the looking glass. No one else seemed to hear. "What she found and brought back," his reflection said coldly, "he is not a man. He is an aberration."

The tendons of FitzWalter's throat stood out. "There is rebellion in Scotland," the Kingmaker announced after a tense moment. "I am sending William and his knights to put it down. I understand his forty days of service for the year have passed, so I will pay him for this."

Llewelyn frowned and shook his head. "After the Scots, you will order William to deal with the Irish rebels. Then, to fight the latest Crusade, providing you do not send him to re-conquer France. You will keep sending him into battle until one day, he does not return. You cannot do this. I will go to the Royal Council."

"It was my father who headed the Council, Llewelyn. Let us take this sheet and the convoluted story about who fathered whose child and go ask them. These are men who have dined in our home and watched Duana with my family. Do you think they want my father's widow mistreated?"

"They were not so concerned for her before," Llewelyn argued. "If not the Council, I will go to the Templars."

"You are a coward," the reflection in the looking glass accused Gwilym. Again, only Gwilym heard. The Kingmaker and the Prince of Wales continued to glare at each other, as did the Welsh and royal knights. "Liar. Traitor. Heretic. Murderer," the reflection hissed at him quietly. "Monster."

"Yes, go to the Council," FitzWalter urged sarcastically. "Even in London, they tell how the heir to Wales was born during an eclipse of the full moon. The moon turned blood red because the babe, like Merlin, is of the Old Ones. Witchcraft. Take that pagan girl your idiot son is bedding and talk to them. The Knights Templar are tolerant of the old religions; ask the Infidels."

Llewelyn slammed both palms on the table. "You cannot do this!"

"It is done," FitzWalter said. Looking at Gwilym, he said, "I promised your wife you will not be charged for your crimes. You will stay with my army as a strategist, not as a general. Duana will be well-kept, and her daughter can join her. The boy stays in Wales as your heir, Llewelyn, unless Duana tells me otherwise. William, you may not see Duana until this matter is resolved. She is with child; I will not risk you hurting her." FitzWalter looked at Llewelyn, and to Gwilym, who stared at the looking glass. "Will you tell me who fathered her daughter, William? Was it my father? Truly you, Llewelyn? Or another man?"

"You left her," Gwilym's reflection accused him. "You failed. She was alone, with child, and she needed you. She loved you and waited for you, and you left her."

"No," Gwilym said, using the French word. He was guilty of many things, but he had not left Duana. He came back from the dead for her. He kept that promise.

FitzWalter looked puzzled. "No, you will not tell me, or no, it was not my father?"

Gwilym looked at FitzWalter. "I will not lead your army. Where is my wife?"

"You wife is safe." FitzWalter leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. "You and your knights will ride for Scotland within the week or I will charge you with a felony and seize your lands. Under the law, that is my right."

"Gwil-" Prince Llewelyn said warningly.

Gwilym leaned over the table so he was eye-to-eye with FitzWalter. "Charge me," he said slowly. "Where is my wife?"

FitzWalter flinched back a hair's breadth. "You would renounce your oath to the king?" 

"You should have stayed dead," his twin in the looking glass told Gwilym. 

Gwilym spotted an inkwell on the table. He grabbed the heavy inkwell and hurled it at the looking glass. Ink spattered and glass shattered. Some shards flew toward the men while other pieces clattered to the floor. FitzWalter cursed and dodged away, and the knights drew their swords. Llewelyn looked vaguely impressed. 

"Damn you," FitzWalter yelled. "Christ, you are a madman."

Gwilym's eyes burned into him. Ink dripped from his hand as though he had slit his wrist and darkness poured out. A final glass shard fell from the frame and crashed to the floor, taking his reflection with it. FitzWalter glared at him, but Gwilym turned and left without a word.

*~*~*~*

Geoffrey spotted the idiot Welsh boy near the gate at dusk, picking the buds off the rosebushes and tearing them into bits. Some wild-looking girl followed him with a basket, dutifully collecting the dissected buds. The Saxon girl should be given to the soldiers, and Gruffydd ap Llewelyn should be locked in a monastery and forgotten, not given the run of court. Marshal FitzWalter ordered otherwise, though, whether Geoffrey liked it or not.

"Stop. Do not do that!" Geoffrey barked at the boy. The young man had been troublesome even before he turned idiot. Gruffydd and Lord William's son: Geoffrey had pulled those boys off servant girls and out of marzipan trays and away from everything except their lessons. 

Gruffydd continued to pluck and shred the roses. He dropped the fragrant remnants in the girl's basket.

Geoffrey stalked toward him. "Do you not speak French, boy? I said stop!"

Gruffydd moved along the outer castle wall and continued his unique method of pruning. The girl smiled prettily at Geoffrey but followed the Welsh boy. 

"Those are the king's roses." Geoffrey followed him. "I do not like being ignored!"

The young man looked at him. The girl tilted her basket, happily showing Geoffrey the rose petals they had collected. Gruffydd must have stripped every bud from every rosebush he passed. With a secret smile, the teenagers turned and moved deeper into the shadowy corner.

Again, Geoffrey followed. "I speak for the King. You impudent Welsh brat! How dare-"

A man's arm snaked out lightning-fast, pulling Geoffrey behind the tall bushes and into the shadows. Geoffrey felt a dagger against his throat. "Do not cry out," a man ordered. The Prince of Wales, Geoffrey realized. "Keep quiet and live a little longer."

"Where Lady Duana?" another man asked in faulty French. William of Aber. Geoffrey felt his cloak jerked off his body. A second knife pressed against Geoffrey's ribs. "What FitzWalter order?"

These barbarian Welshmen would hang – and the boy would hang as well, this time. Along with his little Saxon whore. Geoffrey started to call for help. Both blades pressed harder. Behind William of Aber, Gruffydd looked up from the rosebushes, seeming proud of his role in this ambush.

They stood in the corner of the courtyard, near the first stable. The sun had slipped below the horizon but surely a guard would pass and see them. A servant, a gardener, a stable boy. Any moment, the Welshmen's plot would be discovered and Geoffrey rescued and hailed a hero.

"Where?" William of Aber demanded.

"Rosslyn," Geoffrey answered. "Rosslyn Castle in Scotland."

One man stepped back. A moment later, Geoffrey heard leather squeak as the man swung into a saddle twenty feet away. "Say 'open gate,'" William commanded as the horse snorted. William wore Geoffrey's ornate cloak and beneath it, an embroidered tunic from a chest in Geoffrey's chamber.

The knife blade twitched. Geoffrey felt a warm, wet trail of blood flow from his throat. "Open the gate!" He called, careful not to move. "I am riding out. Open the gate!"

A few words were exchanged in Welsh. William pulled the hood over his head and rode out at a full gallop, too quickly for the guards to realize it was not Geoffrey leaving the castle.

"I did what you asked," Geoffrey said as the hoof beats faded. The blade at his throat had not moved. "I speak for the King." 

"You knew the dead King had Gruffydd locked in the dungeon," Prince Llewelyn responded quietly. "Yet you told no one for months. Tell my son you are sorry."

"I am sorry," Geoffrey blurted.

Prince Llewelyn shook his head and clucked his tongue as if scolding a child. "I do not think you mean it. Guto, do you think he means it?"

As Geoffrey began to tremble, Gruffydd sprinkled a handful of shredded rose petals in front of Geoffrey's face, smiling. "No," the young man said emptily.

"No," Llewelyn echoed. 

The Prince of Wales nodded to the girl, who informed Geoffrey in stilted English, "No parents. Norman army take brother. Now brother dead."

"I am not the Norman army," Geoffrey told her.

The Saxon girl held up her thumb and forefinger, gesturing she thought him close enough. "Norman," she repeated. She made some quick gesture at him and hissed what sounded like a pagan curse.

The knife at Geoffrey's throat did not move, but Llewelyn's hand clamped over Geoffrey's mouth. Prince Llewelyn said, as if he remembered the message, "Lord Gwilym of Aber sends his regards to King John. He bids you tell the Devil when you see him. Tonight."

The idiot Welsh boy continued smiling at Geoffrey as Gruffydd slid an ornate dagger from his boot. Beside Gruffydd, the Saxon girl reached into her basket of petals and withdrew her own little knife.

*~*~*~*

Second to guarding the interior of a warm tavern or a young nobleman's bed chamber, accompanying a noblewoman at the King's behest was the easiest duty a knight could hope for. A man had to ride beside a pretty young woman, enjoy the scenery, see she was not robbed, enjoy the best hospitality castles could offer, and deliver her wherever the King (or in reality, Count Marshal FitzWalter) wanted.

The royal knights learned Lady Duana could manage a horse. And, if the palfrey stopped, manage to get off her horse and run. Richard FitzMatthew even tried having her ride with him, figuring he was too old to be accused of anything unseemly. They did not dare tie her to the saddle or treat her roughly. FitzWalter promised a neck-stretching for any knight who harmed her. The first day, the knights reached Windsor Castle long after nightfall, feeling like they had wrestled a wild animal rather than protected one small noblewoman. Wisely, as the men left Windsor the following morning, Lady Duana traveled west inside a comfortable, safe, covered, and locked cart.

In the next weeks, Sir Richard FitzMatthew and his men discovered Lady Duana could pick a lock. Slip some sleeping drug into their wineskin. Bribe a servant. Wield a dagger. Wield another dagger. Wield an eating knife. Bite. Lady Duana wanted to return to her Welsh husband but had the misfortune to fall pregnant by FitzWalter. FitzWalter, in his newly-wedded wisdom, ordered his pregnant mistress sent to a castle inhabited by his wife.

Once Richard FitzMatthew realized Lady Duana's husband's identity, Richard was tempted to leave a door unlocked and let Duana slip away. But he did not. He had survived five and sixty years by doing as ordered. William of Aber's wife, though - Richard owed Will a latch left unfastened or a horse unhobbled.

Even as the sturdy gate of Pembroke Castle rose, Richard FitzMatthew heard a woman inside shrieking for the guards not to open it.

Richard had known Isabelle since she was twelve and her father sent her to King John's tent. King John emerged the next morning with a smile on his face and the announcement of their upcoming marriage. Sixteen years and five children later, at her husband's death, she married FitzWalter at the urging of the Royal Council. FitzWalter's wealth and power assured her son's succession, but rumor was the Count of Pembroke had not even bothered to spend the wedding knight with Isabelle. Richard, with the benefit of an old man's hard-learned wisdom, could not blame FitzWalter. Isabelle - granddaughter of the French king and niece of the Emperor of Constantinople - was acclaimed as the most beautiful woman in the world. She had big blue eyes and lovely blonde hair, and was perfect in every way until she opened her mouth. 

Richard decided Isabelle was best ignored, so he unlocked the cart and opened the door as the new Countess of Pembroke ordered Lady Duana taken away. He offered his hand to help Lady Duana out. Isabelle stepped in front of him and glared into the upholstered interior. Duana shied back.

"She is with child," Richard FitzMatthew told Isabelle. "She needs to rest."

"Is she?" Isabelle said angrily. "Well, Marshal FitzWalter did find something to keep him busy during the siege." 

The other knights studied the ground.

Richard offered his hand to Lady Duana again. "Come," he said, and Duana came forward. Richard helped her step down. Lady Duana looked around the bailey of Pembroke Castle, seeming wistful. 

Isabelle's eyes flashed. She tossed her long hair angrily. Among noblewomen, virgins and queens wore their hair loose and uncovered in public. She was neither. "Did you hear me? I said get this whore out."

Again, Richard ignored her. "Can you walk?" he asked Duana. 

Duana nodded. "I am fine."

"Yes, you are. You are fine. A fine example of an Irish whore." Isabelle continued to glare at Lady Duana. "How is it men turn me out of their beds to chase you? Me! Turn me out! My John and now FitzWalter. They say the Prince of Wales covets you as well. Fathered your son. The greatest men of our world believe themselves in love with you, but you are exotic. Nothing more." Isabelle hissed at Duana, "I think it must be witchcraft: you please a man so well he would sell his soul to you."

Lady Duana looked at Isabelle steadily, and Richard considered loaning Duana his dagger.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?" Isabelle demanded. "You take two husbands from me, you carry FitzWalter's child, and you do not even pretend to be ashamed?"

Isabelle raised her hand to slap Duana. Richard grabbed it quickly. None of the knights wanted to manhandle the Queen Mother, but in a choice between his wife and his mistress, FitzWalter's preference was clear. 

"Enough!" Richard FitzMatthew told her forcefully.

Isabelle seemed too stunned to object. Richard offered Lady Duana his arm and accompanied her toward the castle. His men fell in step after him. 

After a moment, Isabelle recovered her poise. From behind them, she barked, "Thomas! Sir Thomas."

One of the younger knights looked back. Sir Thomas' expression told Richard all he needed to know about the man's history with the Queen Mother. Over the years Richard had seen several noblemen tempted into Isabelle's bed and have her extract her pound of flesh afterward.

"You will tell my husband we are to have a child," she instructed. "Return to London Court, and tell him."

Richard heard Thomas agree miserably, "Yes, my lady."

Richard doubted Thomas knew it, but her message could be a death sentence for the young man. To his knowledge, Marshal FitzWalter had not visited Pembroke Castle in months. Nor had Isabelle traveled to London. 

"Tell FitzWalter he is to have a child, Thomas," Isabelle said. "A son. Tell him I am not so easily annulled now."

*~*~*~*

Gwilym set out to groom his horse. Instead, he heard the stable door creak open and found he had fallen asleep with his head on the horse's shoulder and the brush still in his hand.

He looked back. A pretty brunette woman entered the old stable, holding a lantern. "Asleep," she said in poor French.

Gwilym nodded and resumed brushing the horse. He covered the hundreds of miles between London and Edinburgh riding flat out and trading or buying horses as necessary. One man against a party of knights – with Lady Duana amid the fight – seemed a poor plan, so he wanted to reach Rosslyn Castle before her and wait. Sneak in and try to speak to Duana after she arrived. Those odds were poor as well, but he had little left to lose. He wanted to face Duana, to plead his case. To have Duana tell him herself if she did not want him.

Two weeks ago, he passed a party of royal knights transporting a noblewoman in a closed cart. He could not see if the woman was Duana, but she had to be.

His hand moved out of habit over the horse's back, but he watched the young woman out of the corner of his eye. She moved as silently and easily as a serpent. His saddlebags held a fair amount of money, and he did not want her stealing it. Gwilym was lost and tired, and the rundown tavern looked like a place a man might wake with his throat cut and his money and horse missing. 

"Will you come inside for the night?" the woman asked. Gwilym had not seen her move, but she stood a few inches too close to be polite. "I have a bed."

"I have a wife," he replied tiredly, in French. "I will sleep here. Alone," he added for clarity. 

"I have a husband," she told him. "Iohn is on Crusade."

"I did not mean to insult you. I am not passing the night, just resting the horse. Or, I will buy another if you have any to sell."

"I do not, but you cannot push this horse any more. It would be a pity to ruin such an animal."

Gwilym, who could not have told anyone the color of his current mount without looking, shrugged one shoulder.

"You are a Welshman," the woman observed. He still wore the seneschal's rich cloak and velvet tunic, but his own high boots and a shirt he had taken from Lady Duana's sewing basket. This shirt too, had twin lines of tiny red stitches at the neck to match a Welsh knight's red tunic. 

Gwilym looked at her in the lantern light. Her dark hair and eyes reminded him of the woman he remembered as Diana. Tyna and Dafydd's mother. Flecks of gold glistened in this woman's eyes, and he did not recall Diana looking so hungry and haunted. What he recalled remained questionable, though.

He blinked. She stood in front of him. Her red lips glistened and the lantern light shown on her pale skin. "You are looking for someone, Welshman." Her fingertip lingered over the simple wooden cross of Duana's he had tied around his neck. "Someone you have lost."

"I am," he admitted.

"At Rosslyn Castle," she said. "Your wife."

"How can you know?"

As he looked into her eyes, he felt drawn to her. Not the way a man was drawn to a woman, but the way a moth flew toward a flame. He felt the pull - not of Old Magic but of something else. Something dark and dangerous. If she was not evil, she knew where evil resided and she had visited there.

"What are you?" he asked uncertainly.

"You will not find her," the woman said.

"You- You do not know."

"I do," she promised. "Remain here. With me."

He felt his body began to move toward her, but said, "I cannot," and stepped back. "I will not. Leave me be."

The woman took her lantern, opened the old stable door, and slid silently into the night, leaving Gwilym alone in his own darkness.

*~*~*~* 

By the time FitzWalter dealt with Prince Llewelyn and agreed to terms with the French, he left London Court a week after Duana, but arrived at Pembroke Castle days after her. Unfortunately, in the bailey, Duana was nowhere to be seen. Isabelle pounced on him before he could get his foot out of the stirrup. 

"She is not my mistress," FitzWalter assured her in the polite, aloof tone he cultivated for French ambassadors. 

"Do you think I am a fool?" Isabelle demanded.

FitzWalter gave his reins to a groom and kept his mouth shut. In the interest of peace, Isabelle's foolishness seemed best left undebated.

Isabelle followed him across the bailey. "How dare you continue to keep that woman under my roof?"

FitzWalter gritted his teeth. He stopped, turned, and pointed to the castle battlements. "My roof." Isabelle had not asked after King Henry, though she had not seen her oldest son in months. She did not ask about the siege, or the French or – God forbid – FitzWalter. FitzWalter's seneschal had vanished to Heaven-knows-where, the Royal Council held marathon meetings about nothing in particular, and FitzWalter had a head cold. "My roof," he said evenly. "Pembroke Castle. I am Marshal FitzWalter, Regent of England and Count of Pembroke. You, Countess Isabelle, are under my roof. Although-" He started to threaten to send her back to her father in France but got his temper in check. 

Static crackled between them. Isabelle's narrowed eyes and flared nostrils looked out of place on her pretty face. "Did my messenger reach you? Do not dismiss me so easily, Marshal FitzWalter," she warned.

"I do not dismiss you; I am saying there is no insult to you as my wife. Lady Duana needed sanctuary and I gave it. This was once her home. Technically, I suppose, it is now her dowry." He added, in case she did not realize it, "She was once my stepmother."

"You are fucking your stepmother?"

FitzWalter stepped toward her. "How dare you!"

Isabelle retreated a step and blurted, "We are to have a child." 

He stared at her. "We?" 

"A son. I am not so easily annulled now, FitzWalter."

"We?" he repeated. "Tell me which man constituted my part of this 'we' while I was in London."

Isabelle smiled, revealing even white teeth. God overlooked nothing in making this woman perfect except a heart. "No. I would rather you wondered."

*~*~*~*

FitzWalter recalled a time he thought his father's focus on the castle's security tedious and pointless. Even the sieges he remembered from boyhood were mere annoyances: months at a time he could not go riding as he pleased. After FitzWalter fought his first battle though, his father's diligence against the Welsh seemed a worthy cause.

No army could take Pembroke Castle's high walls by force and – with stored grain and water wells and cellars, smokehouses and chicken coops and rabbit warrens - the big castle could survive years of siege. No one entered or left without inspection by FitzWalter's knights. The castle gate never opened without reason or remained open one second longer than necessary. Isabelle's legions of maids and musicians and dressmakers and bauble merchants posed the weakest link: to the castle and to Duana. FitzWalter doubled the number of knights guarding Duana's apartment and designated a food taster. So far, Isabelle screamed to the heavens about Duana – who seldom left her rooms and, shunning banquets and acrobats and watching the knights spar, had not crossed paths with Isabelle since the day she arrived – but FitzWalter did not put it past his wife to try to have Duana killed.

FitzWalter sent Duana to Pembroke Castle because the stone walls were impenetrable even to William of Aber. William and Llewelyn had taken every other castle in southern Wales over the years, but not that one. Duana did not seem to appreciate FitzWalter's thoughtfulness.

Kingdoms he could manage. Wars he could win. Kings he could mold. Women remained an enigma.

Like the beautiful ladies in the poems, Duana sat by a window and looked sadly toward London. The setting sun glowed orange against her skin and the breeze caressed the fabric of her veil. These were her old chambers, and he wondered if that had been a poor choice, as well. 

"Should you be out of bed?" FitzWalter asked awkwardly.

Duana remained focused on the sunset. 

FitzWalter stood in the center of the sitting room with his hands behind his back, as if he was a boy called to answer for his misdeeds. "He is not coming, Duana. The Welshmen left Court weeks ago. William is in Aber by now. Do you want to return to London? Or I can have Isabelle moved and you can stay here. Whatever you want." 

"What did you tell him, Fitz?" Duana asked evenly. "What did you say to get William to leave me?" 

"I told him what I have said to you: I will not tolerate you being mistreated. But Llewelyn's knights and son and that Saxon girl overheard us talking abo-about-" he stuttered. "The boy saw me kiss you. I suspect William's knights overheard your proposition to me, as well." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I am not sure what Prince Llewelyn told William, but William was gone by morning. He did not even challenge me. I would have told him it was not true if he had asked." 

"William did not think you insisted I keep my end of our bargain. Or else, he believes I acted of my own will."

"Because William did not challenge me?" 

She turned to look at him. "No, because you still draw breath."

"You overestimate your husband." 

"No. Not if he recalls even a beggar's portion of the man he is." Duana returned her gaze to the darkening horizon. "Do you have any idea how much I hate you?"

"Yes, I have some idea." FitzWalter sat heavily in a chair beside the door. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I do not know how to fix this, Duana. How can you still want to go back to him?" 

"You must never sleep, Fitz, with all the time you spend monitoring marriages in addition to running England. I thought a day had twenty-four hours, but you must find more." She stood and leaned out the window, as if she wished she had wings to fly away. "So, he has a mistress. So, there are other women, as well. You have still caused me more hurt than William ever has." 

"He did hurt you," FitzWalter insisted. "I heard-" 

Duana turned toward him so quickly her long skirt swirled around her legs. "For Christ's sake! No, he did not! What is wrong with you men? How can you think putting Lady or Countess in front of one's name snuffs out passion? You lust after it in mistresses but blush at it in wives. Would you like to know a secret, Marshal FitzWalter, Regent of England, Count of Pembroke and Striguil, and Lord of Leister? We are all women. The difference between a lady and a courtesan is what her father, her Church, and her lover have taught her. I love my husband and I am sorry if that does not meet with your approval." 

FitzWalter leaned so far back in his chair his head pressed against the tapestry on the stone wall. 

"You want to know how to fix this?" she continued angrily, stalking toward him. "Send a messenger to Aber with an oath swearing I did not leave him or dishonor him. A woman can end a Welsh marriage, and William would let me leave if I had asked. I do not need your knights kidnapping me and dragging me across the countryside. William thinks I want a divorce and he is agreeing by not coming after me. You send a message- No, you ride to Gwynedd and tell him that is not true and answer honestly any question he asks you. You tell him what you did, and you tell him what I did, and grant him safe passage if he will come for me. You do it immediately!" 

FitzWalter gaped. He could not put aside his duties for weeks. "But I have to- Henry- The Council- London..." 

Duana tilted her chin up, daring him to defy her. 

"Gwynedd?" he pleaded. 

"Gwynedd. Northern Wales." 

"Northern Wales," FitzWalter conceded, and got up from his chair. At least that was weeks away from Isabelle. 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym understood why the Druids believed every mountain, every tree, and every river possessed an immortal soul. There was a god in nature who deserved to be both feared and revered. In Gwilym’s kingdom, the winters were long and harsh, and the springs wet and cool, but then came the rebirth, all things living again. Summer arrived beautiful and bountiful in Gwynedd. The fields of grain waved in the breeze and the spring lambs bleated after their mothers. The sun brightened the world, rising over the mountains each morning and setting behind the sea. 

Summertime brought warm houses and full bellies and children playing in the village squares. Gwilym had passed too many summers at war abroad and not enough in Gwynedd. He had seen the world - Paris and London and Rome and the Holy Land - but this was his home. He never left it he had not felt hiraeth: the longing to return to where he belonged. 

He had ridden through his lands at midsummer the previous year, overseeing them and feeling firmly rooted. This was his kingdom and all was right with his world. 

After listening to his serfs argue for an hour that afternoon, he did not care which of them owned the sow. If the two fools turned it loose without notching its ear to identify it, both fools deserved to lose it. Gwilym thought his decision Solomon-like: one farmer got the left side, the other got the right, and several nice hunks of pork occupied Gwilym's saddlebag for Gwen to serve tonight. 

He had visited Llewelyn's castle first, passing a week there. There had been a great deal of speculation about the goings-on of London Court and how they might affect Wales. The boy-King had been crowned and the Welsh noblemen summoned to pay homage. Llewelyn reported much jockeying for position and uncertainly about the future, in London. In London, the French were in Dover again and encroaching on London. In Wales, summer arrived and the strawberries were ripe. 

Gwilym made a circuitous route, stopping at the Abbey to visit the tombs. He rode from village to village as he returned to Aber, each time passing the night at the home of one of his vassals. Gwilym inspected new bridges and churches, discussed the harvest and the hunting and the danger of wolves. He decided who owned wandering livestock and gave serfs consent to marry. That last task was his favorite: young couples - the girl often big-bellied and the groom nervous about speaking to his lord - hand in sweaty hand, earnestly trying to convince him of their love and their future happiness, as if he would ever forbid a marriage. 

A recently-married peasant woman walked alongside the road from Aber Village to the castle, carrying a basket on her hip. Recognizing the blonde hair and the sway of her hips, Gwilym slowed Goliath to talk with Muretta.

Though it was unlikely she did not notice a huge black horse clopping beside her, snorting impatiently, she walked on with her head held high. A commoner was not to speak until addressed, and she did not have to bow her head in acknowledgment until she saw him. Muretta's ingenious solution was to ignore him for several minutes. Gwilym had always liked the strand of arrogance that wove through her. 

He saw cabbages and a loaf of bread in her basket, as well as a smaller basket of berries. He maneuvered Goliath until the horse touched her shoulder, unfastened his saddlebag, and dropped a few pounds of the fresh pork in her basket to round out her supper for her husband. 

Muretta stopped, turned, and looked up at him icily. "You will bruise my berries, my lord."

"A pretty woman risks getting more than her berries bruised, walking alone. Where is your husband?"

"At home awaiting his wife and supper." She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. "It is hours until dusk, and I trust you to keep me and my berries safe." 

"I will see you home," he promised wryly. "Your berries are no longer my province."

She regarded him coolly, as if she were the Queen of England. Gwilym chuckled. The corners of her mouth twitched. 

"How is it you can adore a man so much who smells of piss?" he teased, referring to the urine her husband used to tan hides. 

"Soap cures many things. Love is blind," she informed him with a hint of a smile. She started walking again. "And whatever it is called if one cannot smell." 

"You are well?" he checked, still astride Goliath and pulling the reins tight to keep the horse at a slow walk. "What of your husband?" 

"Well. What of your new daughter?" 

"As beautiful as her mother." Goliath walked sideways, his head reined in tightly; the horse saw Aber Castle in the distance and seemed ready for his supper, as well. "There are no little ones at my tanner's hearth yet?"

"I assure you: we apply our efforts often to that end, my lord," she said haughtily, and Gwilym laughed again. 

"I will tell my wife to send you some soap to aid your efforts."

She resumed ignoring him. He accompanied her around the turn in the road with Goliath prancing impatiently. As they neared the turn-off to his tanner's little house, she said, "It seems your horse is in a hurry to reach home." 

"His master is as well. We have been away for several weeks." 

She stopped at the beginning of a path through the trees, and he saw smoke rising from the tanner's hearth. 

"Is there any news of the world, Gwil?" she asked. "Of Londinium?"

"None affecting Gwynedd." He bid her good day, and Muretta patted his boot affectionately. As she turned away, he encouraged her, "You keep those berries safe for your husband." 

He heard her laugh as his tanner emerged from the house to greet her. 

Clear of the village, Gwilym stopped fighting Goliath and let the horse settle into an easy canter. After a mile the road rose above the valley, clinging to the mountainside as it wound toward the sea. He stopped Goliath one last time as he neared the castle gate, looking out over his land. 

Servants and knights spilled out of Aber Castle to greet him in the bailey, surrounding him with a colorful jumble of news and questions. Gwilym slid down from Goliath and gave the horse a pat as they parted: payment for another journey completed. Gwen promised roasted pork for supper, Merfyn promised a joke so dirty it was not fit for even his own wife's ears, and Father Leuan looked constipated - so all was well. Looking over their heads, Gwilym saw his wife standing at the doorway to the great hall. She smiled, and her face radiated like the mid-summer sun. 

The bustle continued as they went inside, with wine brought, a bath promised, and the dogs offering their bellies. Duana took his hand, holding it with both of hers. As the chaos of his castle returned to its normal level, he turned his full attention to her. An uncharacteristic excitement flowed from her. He had missed her as well, but Duana was not a woman to twitter or be passionate in public. 

"I have news," she said the first second they were alone in the hall.

"I have news, as well. Llewelyn says-" 

"No, William," she interrupted, "I have news for you. I-" She seemed to realize she was disrespectful. 

"Go ahead. What is your news?" 

It was good news, he imagined: Eimile started to walk, or Duana managed to get those tell-tale grass stains out of the knees of his favorite breeches. 

"What?" He smiled. 

She hesitated, still holding his hand with hers. "I am with child." 

He looked down at her and forgot to take a breath. His chest felt so warm and full air was unnecessary. "You are certain?" 

"I am." She nodded. "Twice my flux has not come. I am certain."

"You are with child." He digested the words. Calculating quickly, he whispered, "From the MayDay fires?"

She nodded again. Her hands tightened against his. 

"You are with child. We are going to have a child," he said, and it began to seem real. "Mid-winter. We could have a son." 

There was much nodding and smiling at each other. Completely out of character, he put his arms around Duana's hips and picked her up. He turned her in a slow, celebratory circle in the center of the great hall of Aber Castle. Duana put her hands on his shoulders and beamed down at him. Servants stopped to stare and the dogs romped playfully around them. A year ago, all had been right with his world. 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym watched Rosslyn Castle as May became June. He whittled toys awkwardly for the children and composed apologies to Duana in his head. He traded clothing with some other criminal lurking in the forest and developed a basic understanding of Scottish Gaelic. July arrived, bringing long, humid days dragging past as he watched the castle's drawbridge. As he began to despair, he saw knights carrying the King's banner ride in with a woman. 

At the first opportunity, Gwilym slipped into the castle. Posing as the worst musician in history, Gwilym searched: listening to the servants and knights, watching from the shadows at mealtimes, even checking the bedchambers, the dungeon, and the keep.

Eventually, he admitted Duana was not in Rosslyn Castle. Or the village, or the abbey. Either FitzWalter's plan changed or the seneschal lied. 

Duana could be in France by now. Or Spain. Ireland. 

The money in his purse dwindled. He had no soldiers, no knights. No land. No home. As with his plot to kill King John, he had planned a one-way journey. Find Duana and let her turn him away.

He remembered Duana now. Their children. Their life together. He remembered many things, but not what possessed him to bed the girl in Lincoln Castle or flaunt it to his wife. Those weeks of his life remained a dark swirl in his mind: not hazy or pieced together like some of his older memories, but gone. 

Gwilym could return to London and try to glean some clue about Duana's true whereabouts. Follow FitzWalter. Torture her location out of knight or a servant. Torture FitzWalter for the pure pleasure of it. Returning to London sealed his death in flames and seeking aid from Llewelyn dragged the Prince of Wales into the fire with him. Gwilym could not go home and he could not go to Father Leuan. Treason spread from man to man like pox and plague; anyone aiding a traitor became one.

Gwilym felt wholly alone. Adrift. Unable to trust even the memories tying him to the man he had been. His reflection was right months ago; he should have stayed dead. 

*~*~*~* 

In Rome men played a game of chance called 'dice.' Or, the little cubes might be 'dice' – Gwilym was never certain. On Crusade, he had watched until he understood the rules, but been puzzled he and his coins quickly and continually parted company. Gwilym resumed merely watching the gambling game and, after a few nights, concluded the number of times he calculated he should have guessed correctly far exceeded the number of times he did. The game seemed rigged, yet men continued to play. Gwilym watched men lose their money, their saddles, even their horses and weapons and boots. The fools could not win. To Gwilym, the game was an exercise in postponing inevitable defeat.

Now, he stood at the entrance to the old tavern outside Edinburgh and toyed with Duana's little wooden cross. The townspeople he overheard speaking of the female innkeeper claimed all manner of fanciful things. They said she had run the tavern for a hundred years, yet never aged. They called her a witch. She flew, devoured babies, and danced naked with the Devil in the moonlight. Scotsmen rivaled Merfyn in exaggeration but Gwilym heard several people claim travelers who ventured in her inn for the night were never heard from again.

The road in front of the tavern was disused and the forest overgrown. Since Rosslyn Castle was built, travelers from Edinburgh took a different route. Gwilym had stumbled upon the building in May because he was lost. No other horses stood tied outside and he heard no voices from within, but smoke rose from the chimney and drifted into the darkening night sky. 

If this woman, whatever she was, could tell him Duana's whereabouts... He realized the odds were not in his favor – and the game rigged - but continuing to search at least postponed his inevitable defeat. Gwilym had defied Kings and Death, and he had dabbled in Old Magic. He had buried a child and lost his kingdom. In pursuit of the woman who anchored his soul, a pretty witch did not frighten him.

Gwilym entered the tavern. The young brunette woman from the stable sat near the hearth. A tall candle burned on a table. She turned her head and looked at Gwilym as if she had expected his return. For a woman alone, she was at ease - the way a predator did not mind being unprotected.

"You did not find her, Welshman," the female innkeeper said quietly, by way of greeting and as a statement of fact.

"How did you know?" Cobwebs thrived in the corners. No footprints marred the dust on the stairs. Gwilym seemed to step out of time and into a world where light, despite the hearth and the candle, did not fully penetrated the darkness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled; he was less unafraid than he anticipated. "How did you know my wife was not taken to Rosslyn Castle?"

With her foot, the woman righted an upset chair. "Sit." 

He perched on the edge of the rickety seat. "You do not know me. You do not know my wife. How did you know my wife was not in Rosslyn Castle?"

She smiled, and he felt a dangerous undercurrent pulling at his reason. 

"No men eat or drink in your tavern," he observed neutrally. "Nor stable their horses. This was once a working tavern and inn, but not now. I want to know what you are, and how you knew I would not find my wife. I want to know where I can find her now."

"You want much yet offer nothing in return."

"I have money," he said, but she shook her head. He looked at her steadily. "What do you want in return?"

"I want what we all want: company in the darkness."

His heartbeat quickened. "I am company in your darkness much as a fly accompanies a spider, I suspect."

Her dark eyes gleamed. "Are you afraid?"

"Not of pain or death," he said. "But I do fear failing in my promise." 

"You promised your wife you would return to her?"

"I did. And I shall.

She leaned back in her chair and asked abruptly, "I was three and twenty the year my husband Iohn left on Crusade, and left me to run his tavern. He promised to return. At first, I counted the passing seasons. The winters. Now, I have lost count."

"From the look of your tavern and what the townspeople say, William the Conqueror sat on the English throne when Iohn left you. Now, the King is his great, great grandson, and many crusades have passed since the first. You have waited for your husband for more than a hundred years?"

She looked at him steadily. 

"Your husband is dead," Gwilym told her. "Even if he did not die on Crusade, his natural life has ended. You must know. What keeps you here, ties you to this time and place?"

"The same thing causing you to keep searching: a promise," she said. "He promised to return, and I promised to wait."

"Even a hundred years?"

"Even a thousand years," she assured him.

Gwilym leaned forward. "To keep such a promise requires either great faith in a man or great foolishness. And a deal with the Devil."

She did not deny it. Her eyes still burned, luring him in like a fire on a cold night. "Do you think me a great fool or a devoted wife?"

"I think you unnatural, and a contented husband does not leave a pretty young wife to ride on crusade. What are you?" he asked. "Or rather: what have you become? A revenant? Some blood-drinking demon? A night creature returned from the dead to feed off the living?"

Her hand moved too quickly for Gwilym to see, but he found her cool fingers atop his. "Stay with me, Welshman." Her fingers caressed his. Her skin felt like a marble statue had come to life. "You do not truly want to find your woman; you merely want to search. To postpone defeat."

He heard the innkeeper's voice inside his head, assuring him FitzWalter would take care of Duana and Llewelyn would care for the children. Why continue hunting for a woman so she could turn him away? His wife did not want a cruel, penniless barbarian - a traitor and a heretic and murderer and Christ alone knew what else. The innkeeper seemed to open Gwilym's mind and paw through his thoughts like Gwilym would search his saddlebags. Memories of riding with Father, of holding Tyna, of drawing Muretta as she lay nude. Talking late into the night with Duana. Being in the monks' stable in St. Mary's Abbey, with Duana big-bellied and on her hands and knees in front of him- 

"Stop." Gwilym jerked his hand back. His fingers felt stiff and his hand ached with cold. The candle on the table, newly-lit at dusk, burned inches lower. 

"Let her go," the innkeeper advised, speaking aloud. "Hopes can be conjured but reality is cruelly final. Returning to her now: you will cause her more pain. Cause yourself pain." 

She stood. Gwilym's chair creaked as he leaned back warily. As she stood over him, her nostrils flared. She licked her lips. This innkeeper was a beautiful killer, a pretty monster, as he was. He could let her consume him and Gwilym of Aber would vanish. Duana's husband would cease to exist and the next time they found each other, things would be different. Next time, he would be the man Duana deserved. 

"Remain with me," she offered again.

"I do not want you," he said, but he did want her. Not the way a man wanted a woman but the way soldiers started to want death after too many battles. Life became too much to bear and it felt easier to let the darkness consume them.

It seemed so simple - like staying with the nameless French woman in the forest after the battle outside London. He could have slipped into a new life with the pretty peasant and her unborn babe, and he could step as easily into death with this beguiling innkeeper. He had been dead, and it was not so bad. Perhaps, he was already among the undead - so determined to return to his life he did not realize it had ended.

The woman leaned close as if to kiss him. Her fingertip traced his throat and her nose his jaw, but he did not feel her breath against his neck. Time folded on top of and around itself, moving both quickly and remotely in relation to him. As he began to relax, to surrender, Gwilym felt Duana at the edge of his soul, tethering him to life like a rope to the shore. His skin warmed as if a ray of sun found him amidst all the darkness. He touched the little wooden cross at the base of his throat. Duana waited for him, and he could not leave her behind.

"Stop." He stood. His chair crashed backward as he maneuvered away from the woman. "Stop," he said more forcefully. She stepped toward him, but he caught her wrists and pushed her away. "I cannot."

"You can," she said in a low, seductive voice. "I can give you eternity."

"I do not want eternity with you, and I cannot give you a life not entirely mine. I promised my wife I would return. She is with child. My child. I will face her, even to have her turn me away."

Her eyes glowed for an instant, and she reminded him of a wolf seeing its prey escape. "It will end bloody." 

"Perhaps." He took a deep breath, clearing his head. "I am many things, but I am not a coward. The evil you have embraced: at its core is fear. You could not face life without Iohn, but neither could you face death. You invited a demon into your soul to wait an eternity, but perhaps your truth is the same as mine. The people we love, in this lifetime, no longer love us. We walk the earth long after the need for us has ended. If that is true, I am not afraid to die, but I want to know the truth. I do not think you can say the same."

She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Gwilym waited for her to fly at him like some demon, all teeth and claws. Instead, her odd eyes opened and the woman said, "It will be dawn soon." 

"Dawn?" The candle on the table was a flickering stub. Something had consumed the night. He ran his hands over his throat, checking for wounds. He balled his hands into fists, feeling his own pulse. Something unnatural consumed the night; it had not consumed him. 

He monitored the beat of his heart – checking it moved at the correct pace – a long time before she asked softly, "Do souls recognize each other?"

"I believe they do. So did an ancient Greek, Plato. I have stood in the twilight of death, and I- I have seen my wife. Not my wife, exactly, but a soul I recognized in the distance. Each time, she waited for me, and each time, I returned. When my wife was ill – dying – she called for someone and, and-" Gwilym swallowed dryly. "He came. She saw him but I could not." He paused. "Have you seen Iohn?"

He counted six heartbeats before she answered. "Once, long ago."

"I lost a son." Gwilym matched her quiet tone. "A boy who still needed his father. He visits my dreams but he cannot truly return to me. Not in this life."

Again, Gwilym did not see her move or the shutters open, but the young woman stood at an open, crooked window. The breeze blew her dark hair and the black horizon began to bleed purple and scarlet. 

"I have kept you company in the darkness," he reminded her.

"You have. Watch the sunrise with me, Welshman," she requested. "Sit on the hillside beside me as the sun rises, as Iohn used to. Do this, and I will tell you where she is. You can continue your journey, and I will continue mine."

The candle on the table: a guttered-out pool of tallow. In the legend, even a ray of sunlight was fatal to revenants. Despite another chill skittering down his spine, Gwilym nodded. 

"Duana," she said, perfectly pronouncing the name she had taken from his memories. "She is in a castle. From the top of the keep, your woman looks west, toward London, but also north, toward home. She watches for you. I see her near the River Cleddau, but the river does not reach the castle. Beside the castle flows-"

"The Pembroke River," Gwilym supplied.

*~*~*~* 

Under any other circumstances, FitzWalter would not enter a noblewoman's bedchamber, but the midwife did not want Duana out of bed. As he waited for the maid to ask Duana's permission, FitzWalter looked out the window. In the bailey, servants loaded Isabelle's possessions onto dozens of wagons. His petition for an annulment had gone to the Bishop and a messenger left for France that morning to inform Isabelle's father. 

The momentary hopeful look Duana gave him twisted a knife in his gut. FitzWalter felt, in every way, he had failed. As he stood at her bedside, Duana bit her lip and swallowed. She smoothed the blanket covering her and looked away. 

"I am sorry, Duana." 

He took fifty knights to Wales and sent message after message to the outer gate of Aber Castle. The gate remained closed and arrows rained from the gray walls. One knight claimed William's old piss ant of a sergeant dumped a chamber pot from the battlements; that seemed an answer to FitzWalter.

"If you want him, I will lay siege to the castle," he promised. "William can come out or he can starve." William's lands had technically forfeited to the Crown but owning a castle in north Wales and managing to rule it were separate things. "He could at least hear me out." 

Duana shook her head.

"I sent knights to Llewelyn's Court to escort your daughter to London. She had an earache. Her nurse did not want her to travel yet, but the girl will be here as soon as safely possible."

"What of the other girl?" She still looked away from FitzWalter.

FitzWalter did not need to ask which girl Duana meant. "My man spoke with the girl in Lincolnshire. There is no mistake. Nor was there a child." 

For an eternity, she said nothing. "It may seem William believes every legend the bards recite,” she replied shakily, “but he trusts few people. He doubts as powerfully as he believes, and now he doubts me. I doubt him. It is a little word, doubt. In Welsh, 'amau.' A fraction of a breath. Amau. Such a small word for something that can end so much."

FitzWalter started to respond, but Henry scampered into the room. The boy King had greeted FitzWalter at the castle gate this morning, and now pounced happily on Duana's bed.

"Sit in a chair, Henry," FitzWalter ordered more sternly than necessary, and pulled a seat across the floor. "Or stand. You are not a child; you may not sit on her bed." 

Henry frowned at FitzWalter and did not budge from beside Duana. "Why? I sit on your bed with Kym for stories. Why can I not sit on Lady Duana's?" 

FitzWalter gave Henry a displeased look. "Because it is not proper. Lady Duana is a noblewoman, not a nursemaid. You should not even be in here. Go visit your mother before she leaves." 

The boy folded his arms and pushed out his lower lip. "I have seen Mother. I want to see Lady Duana. I am the King, after all." 

Duana sniffed. She tilted her head to whisper in Henry's ear. "Your face will freeze like that. Birds will perch on your lip and roost in your nose. We cannot have a king with a bird in his nose." 

The empty wooden chair protested as FitzWalter rocked it, reminding Henry. The boy sucked in his lip and crawled down. He sat in the chair, but leaned forward to prop his elbows on the bed. FitzWalter decided it was wiser to praise an improvement than dwell on an infraction, and let the young King be.

"You are to have a baby, yes?" Henry rested his chin on his fists. 

"I am." Duana's voice wavered. 

"My mother said she would have a baby, but she was wrong. Now she must leave." 

FitzWalter adjusted his hands on the back of the chair, frowning as he stood behind Henry. "That is not what happened, Henry." 

"Can I feel it?" He ignored FitzWalter, who cleared his throat disapprovingly. "Before my dog had puppies, I could feel them moving inside her."

"Not yet. A little longer until the baby moves that you can feel." 

"How do you know it is in there?" Henry stared suspiciously at the blankets covering her abdomen.

Duana rested her hand on her stomach. "I feel him moving."

"Did one of the Welshmen put this baby inside you?"

"Henry," FitzWalter scolded. 

Henry looked up at the Kingmaker. "Did you put it inside her, Fitz?"

"Enough!" FitzWalter turned Henry, still in the chair, toward the door. "Either go see your mother or run and play. I want to talk to Lady Duana alone. Afterward, I will find you. If I talk to you tutors later, they should assure me you have been working hard." 

Henry did not seem inclined to budge so FitzWalter tilted the chair forward as if to dump him to the floor. "Bore!" the child said, grinning at FitzWalter. 

"Royal rascal," FitzWalter shot back, and managed a tight smile. "Go play. You do not have to see your mother again if you do not want to, but I do think you should write to her." 

Henry skipped out happily but paused to slam the door. FitzWalter got up and reopened it and returned to Duana's bedside. 

"He is a good boy." Duana sounded as if she wanted to talk of anything except William. "Your father would be proud." 

"He adores you." FitzWalter took Henry's vacant seat but scooted farther back from the bed. "His guards said he visits you."

"I am not his mother. FitzWalter, your wife- It is easy for a woman to be wrong, especially when so much depends on her bearing a son. Isabelle has other children, and I cannot imagine you see her often. Are you sure you want to have her annulled so quickly?"

"It is not so simple, Duana. I never expected to marry a woman I loved, but Isabelle and I cannot manage a civil conversation. We make each other miserable." He paused. "She was not with child. She was bluffing, and I do not appreciate her bluff. She thought if you are with child, she could be as well." 

Duana looked at him skeptically.

"Duana, if men ask, I lie," FitzWalter confessed. "In truth, no woman I have been with has conceived." 

"Are you sure? No one?" She looked dubious. "I knew you as a squire. None of those girls?"

FitzWalter studied the floor. "I have paid attention for some time. Lately, between running England and raising Henry, it is not hard to keep track. I am nearly thirty, Duana - fifteen years - and no woman has ever claimed I fathered her child. I did not think it right to marry Isabelle and not tell her what I suspect. So, she knew. Now you know."

"Isabelle's child was not- Could not be... Oh, Fitz, I am so sorry." 

FitzWalter shrugged. "It is done. Henry is securely king. I did what I set out to do. I do not need her dowry and I certainly do not want her as my wife or children's mother. Isabelle will return to her father in France, and she will be happier there. Henry barely knows her. He is far more attached to you." He composed the question in his head but, losing his nerve, said instead, "May I ask, since I have none of my own blood - how is your child?" 

Duana rested her hand on her stomach again. FitzWalter saw the first swell of a pregnant belly. "Fine. I had pains earlier but they stopped. The midwife is cautious."

"I should let you rest." 

Duana nodded. 

He started to stand but sat back down. He shifted his feet. "I know you hate me," he said. "If I had not been so angry with William, I would have acted differently. I do not condone what William has done, but I... I never expected him to walk away, especially from this child. I told him you were with child before he left Court; he does know."

"I-" Duana stopped. "He does know. I am not sure he believes he is the father, though." 

"Does he think the child Prince Llewelyn's?"

"No."

He swallowed and nodded slowly. "I can swear William told me he was riding to London to see you. I can have my knights swear they saw him enter your chamber that night, and he was there again before the siege. I would even swear to what I said to you: your child cannot be mine, even if I had touched you. But Duana, he never challenged me. He never even asked. I had no chance to protest your innocence because he walked away. I am sorry." 

"I know," she said softly.

"Duana, I will say it." FitzWalter took a deep breath. "I cannot undo what has been done but I can see your child is cared for. I have no heir. If William does not acknowledge your child, I would like it to inherit my lands either by right as a son or as a dowry for a daughter."

"That is not le-" 

"It would be legal if you were my wife." 

"Oh." Duana looked away. 

"Hear me out. Whatever you want, Duana. You know my secrets but you have also known me since I was a squire. I would never force you. I want you and your child - your children: the girl, as well - to be safe. Well-cared for. Loved," he added softly. "Loved as Father would have wanted you loved. I can have Isabelle swear to you I have no appetite for a woman who does not want me."

"A generous offer, but-" 

"Do not say 'no' yet. Think about it. You have some time. As long as we marry before your baby comes, it is legitimately my heir. Let me post the banns so William can object if he wants. Perhaps he will realize what he is losing." He paused. "Please consider it." 

"I will think about it," she conceded.

FitzWalter stood. He started to reach for her hand but decided against it. "Duana, Eimile's father: it cannot be William. I suspect it is not Llewelyn either, regardless of his claim. Is she my father's child? Or another man's? If you are going to be my wife, it is my right to know." Isabelle's game of letting him wonder which of his men bedded his wife had its desired effect. FitzWalter did not want to play it ever again.

"He is dead. You hanged Edward, and William hanged Alex and killed Eimile's father. Your father and William - I have been with no one else. William has acknowledged Eimile. In Wales, that makes him her legal father, though he must have changed his mind if he is letting her leave Llewelyn's castle. If he does not have Eimile with him in Aber, he does not want her. As he does not want me." She looked away again. 

"I do want you, Duana," he reminded her, and as a statement of fact. 

In a tight voice, she requested, "Please go, Fitz." 

FitzWalter pulled the bed curtains closed and walked away. 

*~*~*~* 

The July sun crawled across the sky, baking Pembrokeshire until flowers drooped and dogs lay panting in the shade. Shadows lengthened and the minutes passed into hours. The hours would become days, and the days would fall into months. Duana could not stop time. Nor, as Fitz said, undo what had been done.

She sat alone in the courtyard. An afternoon breeze offered a promise of coolness, but never returned. Even in the shade, sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her back until the bodice of her dress was damp torture. It did not matter; she could see the treetops and the castle walls, and the bright blue sky above them. The clouds moved freely and, somewhere in the world, the same perfect blue sky covered William.

Every so often she saw Fitz watching her worriedly from his office window. He wanted an answer, and he deserved one.

Duana could refuse, go to a convent, and let her baby be a bastard. She could marry a stranger. Or she could marry Fitz and have her child inherit half of England and large parts of Wales, Ireland, and Normandy. The Pembroke and Plantagenet cloak would cover Eimile as well; neither child would ever know want or cruelty. Nor would Duana. She knew Fitz; he would keep his word. The wedding banns were posted. All Duana had to do was agree. 

She felt eyes on her, but Fitz was not at his window. Unsettled, she scanned the courtyard and saw Sir Richard FitzMatthew. He walked toward her and sat – without asking her leave – next to her on the bench. 

"I did not realize your husband is William of Aber," the old knight said, as if beginning in the middle of a conversation. "I do not keep up with the world outside of London. I thought Will died years ago. We were friends in our youth. As close to friends as any Norman and a rash, barbaric Welshman can be."

"Do you mean my hus-" She faltered. "The Lord of Gwynedd is Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber. Fox, son of William of Aber. Are you thinking of his father?"

"Perhaps." FitzMatthew looked up at the treetops for a moment. "I did not realize the boy lived." Another few seconds passed. "The boy would be a man by now. I am glad. It means I am not insane."

This man had taken her from London to Pembrokeshire, and Duana had not thought FitzMatthew addled or insane. If he had not been following orders to kidnap her and adept at thwarting her escape, she would have considered him intelligent and kind.

"If the son is like the father, he is about to come in after you," FitzMatthew said next, cryptically. "And likely, get his fool neck stretched in the process."

Duana wondered if this could be some riddle. William and Melvin loved riddles, but she had never heard one this odd. 

"Will and his women," FitzMatthew said, as if talking to himself. 

Duana did not care to hear a treatise on William and his women. She stood and, blaming the heat, started to excuse herself.

FitzMatthew said abruptly, "I grew up knowing the cousin who would become my wife. Love was not so easy for my friend, though. A Jewish woman was a particularly poor choice, even as a mistress. No, not a mistress. The Welsh have a word for it."

She sat down again. "A hearth wife."

"Yes," the old knight responded. "A hearth wife. For a Knight Templar, that would be heretical. He could never tell a soul, even if there was a child. You are too young to remember, but King Richard took special pleasure in tormenting the Jews." FitzMatthew still sounded as if he rambled. "Once, a Christian baby was found dead, and Richard ordered his knights to kill every Jew in London and burn their homes. I did not think a young boy could possibly have survived. He could not have been more than two or three. Yet, it seems, he did." 

Richard FitzMatthew looked at her steadily. Duana no longer thought him addled, nor did she mind the summer heat. "William's mother was a Jew," she said quietly. "His father's hearth wife."

"Will told me a man cannot choose who he loves." He smiled to himself at some old memory. "I suppose the son is like the father," he continued. "Will had odd ideas, and he followed his heart over his head, even though his friends warned him not to. If I may say, my lady, you are beautiful. I saw the wedding banns. Marshal FitzWalter is a fortunate man, but you have another admirer as well." 

"I do not understand."

Her guards waited across the courtyard, and two maids stood beside them. No one could possibly overhear, but Richard lowered his voice. "Slowly, look past me and above the tower. He has watched you since yesterday."

Trying to move slowly, Duana scanned the tall trees outside the castle walls. A branch moved, and for an instant she saw a face among the leaves. Duana shivered as the breeze returned, cooling her skin.

"If you want that foolish Welshman, come to the gate at midnight. I am on guard. Come tonight, before he gets himself killed coming in after you."

"Can you open the gate?"

"Briefly," FitzMatthew said, "and to let you out. I will not risk FitzWalter's or the King's life by letting him in."

Duana looked at the trees again. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"Your William's father was my friend. FitzWalter has taken you from his son, and I do not believe you wanted to be taken. Or the Welshman wants to let you go."

She shook her head. No man risked so much on a romantic notion.

"FitzWalter wanted to ensure you and your child would be safe and treated gently, so he assigned me to lead the men. I am an old man; I have not ridden in a decade or more. Forty years ago though, I was Captain of the Guards for Count Walter Marshal - and thus, for King Richard." 

"You were one of the knights King Richard ordered to burn the ghetto," Duana said. "William's mother - your friend's mistress - was inside. With her son."

Richard FitzMatthew studied a passing cloud. He reminded her, "Midnight," before he stood and walked away. 

*~*~*~* 

The last time Duana stepped into this office, Walter sat behind the desk. The broad desk, the tall shelves, the tapestry on the wall remained unchanged. Even the warm brown eyes and darkly bearded face that looked up at her in the candlelight - and looked again - bore an eerie resemblance.

"Come," Fitz called before the servant finished announcing her. He stood and walked quickly around his desk. "Duana, is something wrong?"

"I could not sleep." She looked for a space to set the tray she carried. Ledgers and letters and maps covered every inch. "Fitz, has the office been swarmed by parchment?"

"Records, taxes, letters, charters: the business of England," he answered. "I was in Wales those many weeks, and dealing with the Church about you and Isabelle. The siege. Now, if the wind blows or the stacks shift, I could be buried in bureaucracy for months."

He smiled, and she felt herself smiling back without having to make an effort. Despite the late hour, Fitz still wore a shirt and dark breeches, but his tunic hung over a nearby chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Like his father, Fitz appeared so formal in public, but Duana looked down. His big feet were bare.

"The stone floor beneath my desk is cool," he admitted bashfully. "The business of England can be done barefooted, and I did not anticipate a witness."

Her smile broadened. "A woman cannot speak in a court of law. Your secret is safe."

He took the tray and set it atop a stack of parchment on his desk. Duana gave Fitz a goblet from the tray, took the remaining one for herself, and sat on the sofa near the empty hearth. She pulled off her veil; the wonderfully cool night air washed over her head. Her shoes fell to the floor with two thumps. She folded her feet beneath her skirt on the sofa. "How is the business of England?" 

"Tedious and endless." Fitz sipped from his goblet. "Duana, you brought me brandywine?"

"Your father liked it, and I thought you did as well. Leave England to tedious chaos for the night. Sit and talk with me." 

Accepting her invitation, Fitz sat on the opposite end of the sofa. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. He sipped, set the goblet aside, and laid his arm along the back of the sofa.

Duana had to work with herbs she could find in the kitchen, and she had no way to know their strength. She did not want to harm FitzWalter, only have him sleep a few hours. Without Fitz to give orders – and perhaps to not even notice her absence – Duana bought herself more time to try to convince William. 

The candle on Fitz's desk burned down to half-past eleven. Fitz's goblet remained on a table, barely tasted.

"You do not like brandywine?" she asked.

"I do, but it makes me sleepy." He rolled his shoulders. "And-" He gestured to the stacks. "The parchment avalanche threatens." 

"Brandywine helps calm my nerves." 

She glanced up, lowered her gaze, and Fitz, no stranger to women, picked up his cup. "You come to my apartments alone, late at night. If I was not the Count of Pembroke and a fearless knight, I should be the one nervous. Are you trying to steal my virtue, woman?" 

"Of course," she said lightly. "My plan is to get you drunk and seduce you. Claim I am with child. You will have to marry me." 

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy. Moving closer, he reached past her to set the glass on the opposite table. "That is twelve different sins all at once. We cannot be married for another two weeks, and you are with child. Do you know how much absolution I would pay for?" 

"Would it be worth it?" She tried to sound bolder than she felt. By her estimate he needed more brandywine. At least half the cup. 

"Every penny, every second." He stayed close to her, and his eyes watched her face in the candlelight. "You have decided about the marriage?"

She nodded, though she hated to lie while he looked at her with those soft brown eyes. 

He touched her hair and traced the scar high on her forehead. "And, and about me?" 

Duana heard his voice hesitate. He was anxious about her, of all the silly things. 

"I am nervous." 

"We can wait, Duana." He took his goblet and moved away, leaning back against his original place on the sofa. "We are not married yet. Even once we are, there is no hurry. You are with child, and you have been ill. The midwife said you had bleeding last week." 

Duana had not realized her midwife reported to FitzWalter, though she should have. Her food, her guards, her apartment, the lovely dress she wore, even the midwife: all Fitz's generosity. He rivaled his father at indulging her whims and showering her with gifts. Duana hated to think how spoiled Eimile would be with Fitz as a stepfather.

"I am fine now," Duana assured him, "but the longer I wait, the more nervous I will get. Also, the more pregnant." 

She saw his eyes focus on the scar, her abdomen, and the scar again. "Tonight? You are certain? You are well, and this is what you want?" 

"I am not certain of anything right now, Fitz," she said honestly, and took his hand. "Except I am to have a child in barely four months, and I want my child to have a father." 

After a few seconds, his fingers slipped away from hers. He put his hand slowly on her belly, as if careful not to startle her. "I noticed the other day: you are truly beginning to show. I guess if I am to be your husband, I get to make those observations." He shifted his hand a few inches. "You said he moves?" 

"I feel him moving. No one else can, yet."

"Can you tell yet if the baby is a boy?" 

"Honestly, I have never been able to tell." 

"It does not matter." He slid his hand farther around her waist and pulled her to him affectionately. "A son would be most welcome, but as long as you and the child are healthy, I am content."

He brushed his lips against her forehead. Duana swallowed. She could do this. She could. She could go to bed with Fitz if she had to. He would be careful with her, patient. 

He put a warm hand on her face. He kissed her gently, urging her mouth open. She felt him kiss her forehead, her cheek, and below her ear.

"It is all right," he whispered. "Relax. I will not hurt you." 

She told the truth. "I am trying." 

His hand left her face, though the heat from his palm lingered a few seconds. Fitz leaned back and shifted Duana so her head lay against his shoulder and fitted beneath his chin. Her hair had begun to come undone, and she felt him stroking it. "Do you doubt my love for you?" he asked. "That I can love you, body and soul, as you deserve to be loved?"

"No."

"Trust me. You came to me."

"Fitz, I do trust you. But I cannot forget..." She tried to put it into words but said, "Everything." 

"I am sorry." After another moment, he emptied his goblet in one swallow. He exhaled and kissed the crown of her head. 

"Am I still married to William?" Duana had not told Fitz to have the Christian marriage annulled, but he moved forward with it. FitzWalter naming her child his heir had minimal basis in Norman law, and Duana had no grounds for annulment. Duana and William were not children, nor related, nor pre-contracted to marry others. Regardless, if the Regent of England suggested a marriage be annulled, the Bishop listened. Fitz annulled Isabelle effortlessly. 

"For a few more days. William never responded to petition so the Bishop has decided to grant the annulment." His chest rose and fell. "If you want, the King can order Prince Llewelyn to bring your son, the next time Llewelyn comes to pay homage. You could see the boy."

Unsure what else to do, she nodded.

Fitz sat petting her hair and watching his father's desk. He smelled of parchment and ink, leather and soap. He smelled like familiar, masculine things and a time she thought herself safe. 

"Fitz, I, I-" He continued stroking her hair. "I am not a woman who bears children easily, and it is not good there are so many problems. It is possible you will find yourself with an heir but no wife. Are you sure that is what you want? If William does not want this child, I can think of no better father than you, but do you want to claim a child not yours if I die?" 

Fitz's hand stopped. "Do not say that. You will be fine. You will have the best physicians in Europe." 

She wondered how she managed to say things to Fitz she could not tell William. Duana suspected she, this child, or both would not survive.

"You will be fine," he insisted. 

"I do not think I will," she said softly. "Would you want me if there was no child?" 

His hand caressed her shoulder as smoothly as calm water flowed over stone. "You know I would." He kissed the top of her head again.

"Would you want this child if there was no me?"

"God would not do that." 

"Fitz, say it. If I die, and William will not come for it, say you will take care of this child."

His throat moved as he swallowed. "Yes. I will take care of this child. And your Eimile. I cannot swear I will love them as I love King Henry, but I swear I will love them as my own. I will do what I can to watch over the boy, as well."

She bit her lip and nodded.

The candle on Fitz's desk had burned down to midnight. Or past it.

FitzWalter held a lock of her hair up to the candlelight and examined it. He kissed the top of her ear and her neck. His other hand stroked her back, tracing languid circles and figure eights through the fabric of her dress. 

"Duana, lovely girl, stay with me tonight," he invited lazily. "Sleep. You know I will not force you. Perhaps, though, your fear will pass with the night. Or the next night, or the next. Will you do that?"

She nodded again.

He stood and, unsteady on his feet, led her down the hallway to his bedchamber. Fitz used his father's office, but still his own bedchamber. Henry's toy animals marched along a windowsill but the canopied bed was empty. If Fitz had a mistress – and Fitz always had a mistress - out of courtesy to Isabelle, he did not keep her at Pembroke Castle. 

He skinned off his shirt tiredly and threw it at a chair. He left his breeches on as he climbed into bed, not even bothering to fold down the covers. Though Duana remained dressed, he had her lay down with him. Fitz moved close and put his arms around her. The sensation was not unpleasant, nor was the certainty he would defend her and her children from anything within his power to battle. 

The night breeze wove through the bedchamber. Fitz's breathing fell quickly into the calm rhythm of deep sleep. Duana did cover him with the bed sheet so his bare feet would not chill, and whisper she was sorry as she slipped out.

She retrieved her shoes and veil from his office, and ran as fast as she could away from reason and toward the castle gate.

*~*~*~* 

If Gwilym possessed a hundred knights, siege equipment, and an eternity, he might have been able to take Pembroke Castle. Water surrounded the fortress on three sides, and the remaining wall appeared well-fortified. The gate looked formidable. He had rope, but no trees grew close enough to the walls for Gwilym to climb up and over; he could see into the courtyard only from a distance. 

Messengers rode in and out hourly but the gate opened for wagonloads of food and firewood and straw, as well. A dressmaker with bolts of cloth and a brewer and a cobbler's wagon. A vast castle's vulnerability lay in its vast appetite for people and goods. Gwilym could manage a way into Pembroke Castle and even get as far as Duana's apartment. His exit, though, would be in bloody pieces.

He remained in the darkness, watching the elderly knight guarding the gate. The old man seemed a weak link. Gwilym unsheathed his dagger, considering. Duana saw Gwilym that afternoon; he felt certain of it. He could kill the old knight silently. Scale the outer wall in the darkness. Lower himself into the courtyard under cover of night. His plan after that point became hazy.

"Do not do it, Welshman," the old knight said quietly, in French. "Midnight. If she is not late. Pretty women are always late. Did your father not tell you? Wait."

Gwilym remained in the shadows, uncertain what the guard meant but unwilling to give himself away. He sheathed the dagger again and, as commanded, waited.

Minutes crawled past. An owl hooted. Another sentry passed inside the castle gate. The windows Gwilym thought were Duana's and FitzWalter's were lit, dark, lit, and dark again. The yellow summer moon rose high overhead, and the Pembroke River lapped and gurgled past. 

"William," Duana's voice whispered breathlessly. He saw a woman inside the castle gate. "Are you still there?"

Gwilym stepped forward and into the torchlight. Beside her, the knight's eyes lit up as if he saw an old friend.

"Are you well?" Gwilym chose the stupidest of all possible questions. Duana was safe inside the plushest, safest nest in the kingdom. She dined with the King and her dress belonged on a princess. Gwilym did not see how she could be other than well.

Duana wrapped her fingers around the stout bars of the gate and looked between them. "I am with child. Your child," she whispered. "In London, I meant 'perhaps' I was with child – I was not yet certain - not 'perhaps' this child is yours.'"

Gwilym stepped closer. "I know. Duana, I am sorry. About the girl. I do not know what happened in Lincolnshire. I cannot remember." He swallowed dryly. "I saw the banns. Do you want to marry FitzWalter?"

"Do I have a choice? I am to have a baby in a few months, and you let Fitz annul our marriage."

"What?" Gwilym hissed back. "I did no such thing."

Duana turned to the old knight. "Can you open the gate?" 

A moment later, the castle gate rose a few feet. It was a silent treason; someone had greased the mechanism so it would not squeal. Duana crawled beneath the sharp teeth, dirtying her dress, and came toward Gwilym.

"Is the maid's child yours? The tanner's wife?"

"I do not think so." 

"You are not certain? How can you not be certain? You have drawings of her. Drawings you must have done years ago. William, you brought her into our bedchamber after I fell. While I carried our son. You let me make her my maid. Were you still bedding her the entire time?"

Gwilym remembered being with Muretta - in her room above the tavern, but also in his bed. "I think Muretta and I parted years ago."

"Prince Llewelyn says otherwise."

Gwilym considered. "Perhaps I told him to say that."

"Why?" Duana whispered angrily. 

"I do not remember," Gwilym barked back.

The old Norman knight cleared his throat. 

Gwilym swallowed and said again, this time quietly, "I am sorry." 

Duana looked up at him. Her eyes shone in the moonlight. A tear broke free and made its way down her cheek. "Why did you lie to me? About Muretta? About wanting only me? About Father Leuan, even?"

"I do not know." Some invisible creature wrapped a hand around Gwilym's throat, threatening to choke off his breath. "I cannot remember. I-" Behind Duana, the castle gate slowly lowered. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Get her out of sight," the old knight commanded. "Another sentry approaches."

Gwilym hurried Duana away from the castle and into the shadows. If someone discovered her absence, FitzWalter's knights would swarm like angry ants. Gwilym held Duana's hand and did not dare breathe. The sentry passed inside the castle gate, spoke casually to the old Norman knight, and moved on.

Gwilym spotted a faint light coming from Duana's apartment window. A single candle or a little lantern moved inside the room. He did not know how long the light had been there; the window was dark earlier. "Open the gate," he commanded the old knight, pulling Duana forward. "Get back inside."

The knight at the gate did not respond. Gwilym heard footsteps passing in the courtyard. Farther down the castle wall, FitzWalter's office window glowed with yellow lamplight. After a moment, the light faded, but reappeared in FitzWalter's bedchamber. Through the open window, Gwilym saw the silhouette of a tall, shirtless man holding a lamp and looking around as if he had lost something.

The heavy castle gate remained closed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The lit windows multiplied, and torches spilled into the bailey.

"Open it," Gwilym demanded. "Open the gate."

Gwilym heard FitzWalter yelling for Duana. 

The old Norman knight turned and hissed between the bars at Duana, "Run."

Gwilym turned and, still holding Duana's hand, ran for the forest.

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth VIII: Amau

Hiraeth IX: Dechrau

*~*~*~*

Duana no longer belonged to him. A priest's blessing was inconsequential for their marriage and the Bishop's annulment felt unnecessary now. As Gwilym had known the first night in Aber he could trust Duana with his secrets, he knew now: this woman was no longer his.

Thirty miles separated them from Pembroke Castle and a bottomless chasm separated Gwilym from Duana. He found himself not touching her as he would not touch another man's wife. He helped her off the horse and into a ramshackle hut as the storm began, but he did so without familiarity. Nor did they speak. Duana said six words the entire night. Gwilym fled and, for reasons still unknown to him, Duana had fled with him.

She slept on the dirt floor, on a wool blanket and beneath his cloak and the few square feet where the roof did not leak. The sky remained black and dangerous with a summer storm. Lightning bit at the treetops and rain poured as if God wept. Gwilym stood in the doorway watching alternately the storm, Duana, and the storm again. 

This woman no longer belonged to him. He would carve it into his forearm and stain the words with blue woad, tattooing himself as Celts once had. The marks would force him to remember: Duana was not his. 

The baby must be moving. Gwilym saw Duana wince and put her hand to her abdomen as she slept. She had not looked so pregnant in her dress but in her chemise, a little belly showed.

The angry wind sifted, and the thatch roof sprung a new leak. The leak did not affect Duana so Gwilym set a cracked bowl to catch the drip and let it leak.

Gwilym was thirty miles west of Marshal FitzWalter and, with a good horse, four or five days' ride north to Aber. He knew this land. Two years ago, Gwilym's soldiers taking Carmarthen Castle on Llewelyn's orders caused King John to brand the Welshmen traitors, hang Dafydd, and cage Gruffydd. King John demanded Duana and Eimile – then unborn – returned. Gwilym refusal set him on the path leading to an abandoned hut deep in the forest where the former and future Countess of Pembroke slept on the floor as Gwilym hid from the new King's knights.

His armor left London with Llewelyn and Gwilym's signet ring vanished after the battle, stolen. Gwilym counted his possessions like a peasant. He still had an old Viking sword. A dagger. Two pair of breeches, two shirts – one which Duana had sewn. His boots and a belt. He had a good horse and a handful of coins left in his purse. String, fishing hooks, a blanket, a rope, a flint, a bow, and a wineskin currently holding water.

His mind wandered to fanciful things. He could hunt and fish. He could repair the hut's roof and gather dry grass to make a mattress. So long as no Welsh nobleman recognized him, he could pass as a traveling freeman in town: a carpenter who lacked tools or a musician who lacked talent and a lute. The forest around them held berries and nuts and mushrooms. He had no crops to harvest, but Gwilym could feed himself and Duana and make the hut livable, at least until winter. At least until the baby came and Duana would need a doctor or midwife he had little money to pay. Probably, the baby would need a wet nurse. Diapers, swaddling, blankets. A cradle. A home with a door and a hearth, inhabited by a father not being hunted by the Crown. 

Duana's elaborate dress hung on a peg on the wall. The embroidery alone probably cost more than Gwilym's horse. Even her chemise was trimmed with fine lace. A little ruby-studded cross hung from a gold chain around her neck – likely a gift from FitzWalter. Last night, he smelled brandywine in her breath. To Gwilym's memory, Duana seldom drank, and she did not drink brandywine alone.

Duana winced again, and this time opened her eyes.

He looked away from her quickly and out at the forest, as if something in the driving rain held his attention. "Are you well?" he asked awkwardly, in the cool, damp darkness. 

"The baby. He does not care for so much riding."

"Rest. You are safe. There is a priory five miles away." Gwilym had rehearsed a little speech in his head, and it fell from his lips. "After you have rested, I will take you there. I would take you to the castle, but Llewel and I destroyed Carmarthen Castle a few years ago. At the priory, I will wait in the trees and make sure you are safely inside the gate. Tell FitzWalter some masked nobleman tried to kidnap and marry you, but you escaped untouched. Thanks be to God," he told the storm sarcastically. "England rejoices."

He heard her moving in the far corner of the hut. He stole a glance, Duana had pushed up on one elbow. "I thought you were taking me home."

Gwilym gaped at her. "I cannot take you home. I am a traitor against the Crown. I have no home. My land and title are forfeit. Did FitzWalter not tell you?"

She pushed her hair back from her face and wrinkled her brow. "Fitz told me you were in Aber. He sent you messages."

"FitzWalter told me you asked for sanctuary, Duana. I went after you, but his senes-something told me you were in Scotland. I have been searching for you. I cannot answer his messages or object to having our marriage annulled if I am not in Aber. Why did you leave London?" he asked. "I would have slit my wrist and written you an apology in blood, but I woke and you were gone."

As the storm punished the roof, an awkward silence settled between them.

"I was upset," she said admitted. "Fitz told me of that girl, showed me the..." She swallowed. "He showed me the parcel, and I was upset. I asked to leave London Court, but not to leave you. Not to be taken to Pembrokeshire."

"But you did leave."

"She is thirteen years old, William," she reminded him angrily. "You sent me the bed sheets and the bill. Did you get her drunk? Hold her down? Did you tell her not to be a silly little girl?" Duana demanded. "To open her legs and let you love her, even if it hurt?"

Gwilym studied the uneven dirt floor. 

"Tell me you were drunk and mistook her for seventeen. Tell me she took a fancy to the exotic Welsh general – a general about to ride into battle after he promised me he would not. Tell me you were far away and frightened, and this girl put you in mind of me, and you tried to be careful with her. Please tell me anything except what I see in my mind."

He glanced up. Duana's eyes glistened and her chin quivered. She looked away and sniffed.

"Why?" she asked in a choked voice. "Why would you do that, William? I never asked fidelity of you. You pledged it. I-I know I am always with child, and busy with the ledger and the castle, and I am no longer seventeen-"

"Seventeen or twenty-seven, with or without child," he interrupted, "even in bad temper with bad breath and wiping your nose on your sleeve, you are the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes upon. I killed a king for you, Cariad. I made a deal with the Devil. I gave you my life. My heart, my soul. I am many things these days, but fickle is not one of them."

"I want to believe you. I want to believe there is another explanation, but I saw the sheet. I saw a letter in your handwriting. Fitz sent a man to Lincolnshire. The girl says-” 

“What does she say?”

“She told Fitz’s man you-” Her voice faltered. Her head barely moved to nod. “What she says, what you claim, and what I have seen? How can all three be true?”

Since he could not answer, Gwilym decided the storm needed close monitoring. He heard her sniff again.

The second silence outlasted the Roman Empire. 

"I would like to tell you there is some mistake about the girl," Gwilym said after tension became unbearable. "But that does not seem to be the case. I do not remember. There are still things I do not recall or understand. I have been with Muretta, but I do not know when. Not since before we married, I think, but I could not swear it. There was a French peasant woman after the battle – I told you - and another woman outside Edinburgh - but..."

He worried his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to put together an intelligent sentence. He felt Duana's eyes bore into him and heard the rain drip from a dozen places over their heads.

"After the storm passes, I will take you to the priory," Gwilym repeated. "You will be safe there until FitzWalter can come for you."

As she sat up, a strong gust of wind threatened to lift the old roof off the walls. A patch of thatch over Duana's makeshift bed came away, and she scrambled toward Gwilym to keep from getting drenched. Gwilym snatched his cloak and blanket a second too late for them to remain dry. 

With no other choice, Duana joined him in the doorway, huddled beneath the eaves. Gwilym handed her the damp blanket, and she draped it around her shoulders. Unsure what else to do, he resumed watching the storm as though he alone must supervise it. 

To his surprise, Duana's fingertip went to the base of his throat. She touched - not his skin - but the simple wooden cross he wore. "That is my cross." He felt the pressure as her fingertip traced it: one stroke down, one stroke across. "The cross my father carved. I had Fitz send a man back to London to search for it. I thought it was stolen."

"It was stolen. Your former husband stole it." The cross remained as he tied it around his neck in London, months ago: suspended from a pale ribbon rather than a leather cord. "Then, I broke in to the royal senes-something's chamber and stole his clothing. Once a thief, always a thief." He hesitated. "I thought I would give your cross to you. Which is what I will do." Gwilym drew his dagger from its sheath and offered it to her. He bowed his head. "Cut it off. I cannot untie it. Or, cut the throat wearing it; I care not."

She did not take the knife. Instead, she examined his hair, which had recovered from her shearing in London. She checked the wound on his head, now a fading scar. He was bearded and thinner; he had not lingered over meals as he searched for her. He swam the river to reach the tall tree outside Pembroke Castle, as close he had come to a bath in some time. His cheekbone bore a bruise from a disagreement with two men in the forest a week ago. The men had decided to steal Gwilym's sword, and Gwilym decided they would not. Duana seemed to chronicle his hurts.

"I love you," he said hollowly. "Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I have loved you and only you. If I have strayed, you are the anchor bringing me home. I suspect, you will always be that anchor."

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed again. The wind whipped her chemise around her legs and blew her auburn hair wildly. His memories did not lie; she moved poets to put quill to parchment and sculptors, chisel to marble. He wished with all his heart he could still draw her, to have an image he could tuck inside his shirt and carry to his death.

This woman no longer belonged to him, he reminded himself. He had nothing to offer her except pain. Gwilym was like a corpse with a sword; he clutched something out of habit in case his life returned.

"That is all I wanted to tell you. All these months. And what I should have told you years ago." He continued to face her, inches away but not touching. "I will take you to FitzWalter. Or, if you do not want to marry Noble Fitz, to wherever you want to go. Choose a new name and I will take you to a convent. If I sell the horse, your dress, and your jewelry, I will have enough money to buy your way in. Perhaps the convent in France? FitzWalter will hunt for you, though, as he will hunt me."

She took his free hand. "William, if we go back and explain, Fitz would understand. He-"

"You knew I was outside Pembroke Castle. Why not tell FitzWalter to open the gate and let you out – or let me in - if you are so sure he would understand?"

"Fitz swore he would not harm you," she insisted.

"You cannot believe that, and you know half of what I have done."

Duana looked away but her hand remained in his. It was Gwilym who let go, breaking the connection. "I cannot go back, Duana. What is done cannot be undone. My life is gone but yours is not. You can make a new– Dechrau," he said in Welsh. Remembering the French, he added, "A new beginning. A life for a life." 

He waited for her to agree or argue but she did not. Again, the silence stretched into minutes punctuated by thunderclaps and lightning.

Perhaps it was instinct and the knife he held in his hand, but Gwilym asked, "Is FitzWalter displeased you are with child?" 

Duana answered quietly and still without looking at him. "He is anxious for me but excited about the baby. He wants a boy. An heir." She paused. "William, I cannot ride anymore. Not five miles, not one mile. Not today. Not tomorrow either. Unless I want to lose this baby, I must rest."

"I can see you are safe here." Gwilym sheathed the dagger. "FitzWalter's knights will not venture so deep into Llewelyn's forest. Not at first. They think all Welsh forests haunted. I can patch the roof. There is a stream nearby. There is plenty of game and, if I recall correctly, a sheriff too lazy to notice if I poach it." He swallowed again. "We can stay until you are well."

"It may be some time."

As soon as she said it, Duana winced again and put her hand to her abdomen. Gwilym put his hand over hers. Those were labor pains. Emile arrived a few weeks early and their son had been tiny, but this child she carried– it could never live outside the womb so soon.

"Is he coming now?"

Duana shook her head and exhaled. "This has happened for months. If I lie down and rest, it passes."

Gwilym remembered to remove his hand. "What is wrong?"

"I do not know. This baby moves. He grows. He is certainly hungry. Other women have no problem but, after Mab and everything that went wrong, perhaps it is too soon for me to be with child again."

"I am sorry. I had planned otherwise, but I forgot. I was tired and-" She looked at him with her mouth open. Gwilym did not bother finishing the sentence. Instead, he said wearily, "I told you the exact opposite, I know. I remember." 

Her hand remained on her abdomen and the look in her eyes suggested he might get his throat cut as he slept. Gwilym threw apart his arms and bowed to her theatrically, getting one sleeve wet and acknowledging his title as the King of Fools.

With no other dry place – the shed holding the horse was more the skeleton of a shed than a shelter – Gwilym spread his blanket on the narrow strip of dirt outside the hut, beneath the eaves. He sat at one end, creating a barrier between Duana and the driving rain. 

"The wizard Merlyn was born in a cave near here." Gwilym searched for something to say as she lay down. "An ancient oak tree still marks the site. I know the place. Once you are well enough, I could show it to you. On the way to the priory," he added.

"Is there nothing you do not believe?" She curled up with her head on her folded arm.

Gwilym covered her with his cloak. He started to put one hand on her back but caught himself. Instead, he clasped his hands and interlaced his fingers to remind himself: she no longer belonged to him.

"I believe in Old Magic," he answered. "Druids, Merlin. The night we made Mab, and after you fell from your horse... As I lay dying on the battlefield, I have seen Old Magic."

"I have seen you, William," Duana said sleepily. 

He had no idea what she meant, but he watched over Duana and waited for the storm to pass.

*~*~*~*

A week slipped by. Twelve days. Three weeks. July's afternoon thunderstorms became hot, still August evenings. Gwilym noted how many long summer days passed but made no mention of it to Duana. He was a liar and a heretic, a killer and a traitor – but not an idiot.

Gwilym patched the roof and gathered (or stole, rather) straw to make a nice tick for her bed. Keeping his head down, he ventured into town and bought blankets, a cup and bowl, a bucket, an ax, and a plain dress for Duana. He snared rabbits, hunted deer, and caught fish. He built a door for the hut and a roof for the stable. At night, Gwilym slept on his blanket, wrapped in his cloak and nightmares, and Duana slept on the straw mattress a few feet away.

He did not let her carry water or firewood, but as August dragged on, Duana seemed well. She washed and mended his clothing. She swept the floor with a little willow broom she made, and she cooked the game he caught. Her fancy dress hung on the wall inside the hut and the ruby-studded cross from FitzWalter hung beside it. To anyone who might pass by, the future Countess of Pembroke looked like a very pretty, slightly pregnant peasant woman. A very pretty, slightly pregnant peasant woman he did not touch. And who did not touch him. They lived together like two oppositely magnetized lodestones; each magically pushed the other away. 

One morning, Gwilym hid and watched FitzWalter's knights ride past on the road through forest. Duana was safe in the hut, miles away. The royal knights rode on toward Carmarthen. Llewelyn's knights would know the forest though and follow the winding footpaths sprouting into the trees. Other knights would search, as well. Once word spread a marriageable, pregnant heiress was missing, the race to find and marry her would begin.

He could not protect her, nor could he hide her forever. Duana's belly grew each day. Gwilym caught her looking west, toward Pembrokeshire. He knew she stole time but she could not steal much more. 

*~*~*~*

Without candles or moonlight or anything to eat, bedtime arrived early. They shared a roasted rabbit at midday but Gwilym's snares yielded nothing that evening. He offered to fish or forage, but Duana claimed she was not hungry and went to bed at dusk. It seemed impolite to hunt something and eat it without her, so Gwilym sat and watched the fire outside for another hour before he lay down inside the hut as well.

Gwilym's mind wandered to venison chops and lamb stew. To raspberry tarts and ripe apples. To FitzWalter's knights and Duana's belly. Little Eimile's smile and Mab's tiny hands. Whether slowly burning as a heretic was worse than weeks of torture followed by quick beheading as a traitor.

He knew from Duana's breathing she remained awake. He assumed she was hot or hungry, or the baby restless. The August night was still, and the forest a chorus of frogs and insects. Gwilym lay on his blanket on the dirt floor, watching Duana watch nothing. Outside, the last of the dying fire pushed a faint puddle of light through the open door.

That little liar in Gwilym's brain whispered Duana might still love him. There remained a spark and something salvageable from this ruin. Duana might want to forsake marrying the most powerful nobleman in the kingdom to remain in the forest, living in anonymous poverty with a liar and a heretic, a killer, and a traitor.

As he watched Duana, that little liar sounded convincing.

His eyelids began to lower as Duana said his name.

"I am awake," he answered. "Are you well?"

"Eimile is two," Duana said quietly. "Tonight, she is two years old. I wonder if Fitz realizes." A lonely owl hooted. "Eimile should be with him in Pembrokeshire by now."

Gwilym had wondered if Duana left Eimile at Pembroke Castle, but not asked. Llewelyn would not defy the King to keep one little girl. For Mab, Llewelyn would go to war, but not Eimile. Llewelyn had no shortage of girls, nor did the rest of the world.

"I wish I had told her goodbye in Aber. I know she would not remember, but..." Gwilym wished he had taken Mab's baby blanket, as well. He wished many things, none of which could be changed. Eventually, he asked the back of her head, "Have you told FitzWalter of Eimile's father?"

"You are Eimile's father, William." 

"I am of no use to her but being young King Henry's sister might be." He paused. "I have seen FitzWalter with Henry. He will see Eimile is treated kindly. She will have dowry enough to marry any-" 

"I know," Duana interrupted in a strangled voice. 

"Eimile needs her mother, Cariad. Soon, you will be too big to travel. You cannot linger forever in this forest."

"I know," she repeated hoarsely.

"Are you afraid of FitzWalter? I judged him gentle with women. Has he-"

"I am not afraid of Noble Fitz," she said, sounding annoyed, "though, if he does not stop treating me as if I am still seventeen, I fear I may smother him with a pillow one night as he sleeps."

She could not see him, but Gwilym nodded approvingly. "It would save me the trouble of returning from Hell to cut his throat."

She exhaled noisily. "William, I wish you would not talk as if you are a dead man."

He was a corpse with a sword and a final mission. However, not wanting to risk an argument, he did not respond.

Duana rolled to face him. Gwilym felt her warm hand take his. She lay several feet away, but the touch seemed like an embrace. 

"I will take you to the priory tomorrow," he promised. A second later, he added, "I will leave my sword with you. See it goes to Mab. Tell him, once he is old enough to understand, his great great-grandfather took the sword in battle from a Viking king. He took the Viking's woman, too, who bore him a son who became my father's father. This sword has battled Norsemen, Irishmen, Scotsmen, Normans, Slavs and Moors, Romans and Saracens. It has served the men of Gwynedd well."

Her eyes glistened. The glowing coals made her hair shimmer like polished copper and old gold.

"Make FitzWalter come for you himself, Duana," he reminded her. "Do not leave the priory with one of his knights; you will never each Court."

"What will you do, once I reach the priory?"

Gwilym had no plan beyond seeing Duana safe. "Likely? Covertly watch you as long as I can. Until FitzWalter's knights discover me. So, look among the crowd outside the church at your wedding, Cariad. If the wedding night with Oedipus proves disappointing, set two candles in your window as a signal. I will meet you in the royal stables at midnight. I promise you will sit gently but smile mysteriously at breakfast; let FitzWalter think he is the reason."

"That is treason."

"One of my many high treasons, and surely the most pleasurable." He toyed with her fingers fondly. "I found myself in far less trouble before you came along, pretty Irish girl."

Her silence indicated she did not find his joke amusing. In fact, her face looked infinitely sad.

"I would not change a day," he told her honestly. He still held her hand, which grew damp with perspiration. "Not a day, not an hour. Not that first night in Aber. Nor the nights I discovered Latin has the best vocabulary for sin. Not Eimile, or the Beltane fires. Or Mab. I would take back anything I have done that caused you pain, but I do not regret one moment spent with you."

Silence spread between them, weaving its fingers into wistful memories.

"I would like to see this child born," he confessed, "to know life continues."

"I would like that, as well. William, you will believe whispers and mist, and you would wage war against the wind - yet you seem resigned to death. To defeat. I know what you have done," she added quickly, "but you can pray for forgiveness. Do penance. Do something."

He thought a long time, trying to find words to convey the desert occupying his soul and the evil stalking his dreams. "The Jews have a legend of Lilitu, a beautiful female demon, and the Scots speak of the baobhan sith. I have heard the creatures called revenants. To the Greeks, they are the Lamia, and on the Isle of Man, they are the leanan sídhe. Beautiful female demons that return from the dead to seduce men and feed off their blood."

"The dearg-due," Duana said in the darkness. "The blood sucker. A legend to frighten children so they do not wander into the forest."

"Near Edinburgh, I encountered such a demon. A hollow creature who belonged among the dead but had remained tethered our world for a century or more. She asked that I pass the night with her and, in the morning, sit with her as she died. The sun rose. She looked upon it and she was free. She was dust, and I envied her. I am like her," he told Duana. "In my reflection, nothing lives inside me. I returned from the dead because I promised you, but I do not belong here. Nor do you need me."

"I do," she insisted.

"I see such horrible things in my head, Cariad. Every mistake I have made, every sin. This girl in Lincolnshire I cannot remember: I see myself drunk and hurting that child for sport. I hear Diana begging me to save her. I see Dafydd dying. I see my daughter lost and frightened and cold. I see the old King dying. I see you: beaten to pulp and floating dead beneath the ice. I think 'Does this evil live in me? I have defied God's laws and He has forsaken me, so am I capable of this?' I had not thought so, but I do not recognize this man who returned to you."

"God has not forsaken you. You must have faith."

"In what?" he asked. "You sound like Father Leuan. What is there left to have faith in?"

"Do you have faith in me?"

Taken aback, he said, "Always." 

Her hand drew Gwilym off his blanket and onto her straw mattress. Duana's palm touched his face, with her fingertips against his bearded cheek. For a moment, the vast wasteland of his world took on some color. His hand found her waist, her hip, the roundness of her belly beneath the thin chemise. Drowning men clutched at straw, and Gwilym clutched at her.

"I cannot leave you," she said. "Not like this. Not broken. Not thinking God has left you."

"You have no choice." His hand passed over her belly again. "I will always be with you, like battle scars and the French pox." He tried to make her smile. She did not, so he repeated his advice from years ago – advice he had also given Diana. "If there is no choice, do not resist. I would rather my pride bleed than my wife. Do what you must to keep breathing."

"There is a choice." He felt her soft lips against his. Not a parting kiss but an invitation, drawing him in. 

Like a man in entranced, his eyes closed. Duana shifted to her back so he lay on top of her. She smelled of fresh earth and wood smoke and musk. She reminded him of Gruffydd's Saxon girl: not entirely clean or tame. Duana's fingers traveled down his bare back and ass. His base instincts came alive, and that little liar who lived in Gwilym's brain spouted enough romantic nonsense to fill a book.

"I choose you," she whispered in the hot darkness. Duana's blue eyes looked up into his. "Of all the men in this world, I choose you, William." She guided his hand to her breast, and her nipple pressed against his palm. "Have faith in me. If I acknowledge you as my husband, do you acknowledge me as your wife?"

"You are a foolish woman." He bit his lip. "If I agree, will go to the priory tomorrow? Allow FitzWalter to come for you?"

"I will," she promised, with the summer night as witness.

He exhaled. "I choose you. I acknowledge you as my hearth wife. From this moment on and as long as you consent or until the moment I die. I am yours alone."

Duana's fingertips slid down his neck and bare chest. Her lips pressed against his throat: a dotted path of warm kisses to the little wooden cross he still wore. Her body felt lush and inviting and super-heated. He moved back so she could pull off her chemise, and he watched as if under a spell as she untied the drawstring of his brasiers.

Her skin glowed pale and pure in the dim firelight. He could make out the darkness of her nipples, the tangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. 

"You are lovely," he said. "FitzWalter is a fortunate man.

"Tonight, you are the fortunate man." He sat back, and she maneuvered onto his lap, facing him. Unabashed. Wanton. Her skin felt hot and slick, and his cock pressed hard and insistent against her sex. Her mouth tasted like sweet milk and her skin like sea salt. As he entered that wonderful, tight embrace, Duana whispered in his ear, "I will never be with him and not imagine you."

Instead of being off-putting, her vow seemed the most sensual thing ever uttered. The last drop of reason and resolve drained from his being. "I will give you something to remember," he promised.

One last time, Gwilym told himself.

*~*~*~*

He tired of going to bed with Duana and waking alone. He tired of being hot and dirty and hungry, as well. Gwilym's snares were empty again. No game crossed his path. Even the fish were unsympathetic to his growling stomach. 

The morning sun warmed his bare shoulders and insects buzzed in his ears. He barely slept, and some bug had bitten between his shoulder blades exactly where he could not scratch. Gwilym baited his hook with a tasty-looking worm and lowered it into the stream again. Higher on the bank, a flock of blackbirds protested. He could not see Duana on the other side of the berry bushes, but he tracked her movement by the blackbirds' squawking and the outbursts of Irish curses.

No fish approached, so Gwilym moved ten feet upstream and tried his luck there.

He still smelled Duana's body on his. The night's pledges of hearth marriage and the passionate consummation of such had yet to be mentioned in the light of day.

Gwilym watched a fish approach the hook. His belly growled again. He tugged the line gently so the worm wiggled. 

There had been spots of blood on Duana's mattress. Just a few, but the blood looked fresh. Gwilym would ask Duana about the baby, but he could have picked up mercury easier than he could corral her into a conversation this morning. He suspected her avoidance of him would soon become a number of entirely rational reasons to avoid the priory, as well. He sensed a battle brewing. A battle he planned to win.

He watched the fish consider the worm but swim on to join his fish friends somewhere Gwilym was not. 

Cursing, Gwilym jerked the hook from the water and flung the pole as far as he could. It sailed across the stream and tangled on a low tree branch. He felt momentarily satisfied, but then he put his hands on his hips and stared at it. He remained hungry, and if he wanted the pole back, he would have to swim the stream to get it. He was barefooted, with his breeches legs rolled up. He waded in.

"The fishing goes poorly, I see," Duana's voice said. Gwilym looked back. She made her way down the bank while holding dark berries in each hand. Last night, he would have sworn she was less pregnant than she appeared this morning.

He exhaled and made an attempt at scratching the bite between his shoulders. "Amber fish live in trees. Did I not tell you? Fishing for them in water has been my mistake all this time."

She offered him the seven or eight berries in her left hand. Gwilym waded back to take them. Duana sat on a flat rock on the riverbank and began to eat the berries she had picked for herself. His complaining stomach hoped she would pull more berries or nuts or a nice apple or cabbage out of some secret pocket, but her empty belly – and the baby's – had probably hoped he would catch a fish. 

"Blackbirds have stripped the bushes," she explained as he looked disappointedly at his meager portion. "I saw a bear track, as well."

Gwilym sat beside her tiredly, left his feet in the cool water, and considered whether he was hungry enough to track and single-handedly try to kill a bear.

The berries were ripe and warm, but they disappeared into the expanse of his empty stomach like a pebble dropped into a well. Duana had briar scratches on her arms, and her palms were stained purple. Perspiration beaded on her pink forehead. The redness of her neck and around her mouth, Gwilym suspected, came from his beard.

"This is hopeless." He stood up in the stream. "I am taking you to the priory. You are FitzWalter's bride; the monks will feed you."

Duana looked up at him but did not move. 

"Get up," he ordered. "If we do not leave now, you must ride in the midday heat without a veil."

In response, she reached down and removed her shoes. She let her feet dangle in the water and sighed blissfully. Fish converged to examine her toes. 

The battle of wills arrived.

"Duana, I am not joking. Put your shoes on. That is my child you carry," he reminded her. "I will not let either of you starve."

"Rescue your fishing pole from the tree and catch us a fish for breakfast. A regular fish. I am not leaving until I eat, and until you agree to return with me."

"Return to the priory?"

"Return and remain to speak with Fitz."

Gwilym put his hands on his hips again. "That is not what you said last night."

She looked up at him impassively, like the Rock of Gibraltar regarded the sea. "I will go to the priory with you, but if you try to leave without me, I will scream. The monks will seize you and, unless you want to kill a man of God to escape, you will have to wait for Fitz."

Gwilym could threaten, but abandoning Duana in the forest left her vulnerable to kidnappers. She knew he would not do it. As much as his instincts told him to protect her – instincts aided by her pregnant belly as well as ending up atop Duana last night, both of them taking God's name in vain as Gwilym buried himself hip deep inside her – Gwilym could not allow Duana to remain with him. He certainly did not want to manhandle her onto the horse, nor leave her bound and gagged outside the priory gate. For his acclaimed battlefield tactics, a pretty Irish mason's daughter had maneuvered him into a proverbial corner.

He wondered – in those distant times he and Duana played chess – how many times he truly outmaneuvered her, and how many she merely let him.

"Duana, if I am fortunate, I can provoke FitzWalter's knights into killing me quickly. I am a traitor; that is not in doubt. FitzWalter accused me of witchcraft and, in the eyes of the Church, I am guilty. I did take you among the Druids. I did allow them to heal you and bless our son. If-"

Duana furrowed her brow. Clearly, she had not known.

Gwilym continued. "If I am unfortunate, his knights take me alive. After weeks of thumbscrews and the rack and hot irons, I can burn at the stake. I am a dead man, Duana."

"If you would speak with Fitz. He promised me-"

"A man who wants a pretty woman on her back will promise anything," Gwilym informed her angrily. "I promised I was your hearth husband, if you recall. I do not even have a hearth."

Perspiration beaded on her forehead but Duana regarded him coolly. "I think you fear living more than you fear death."

Gwilym stared at her a few seconds. "I think you are insane." He turned and waded deeper into the stream.

"I am insane? You are the one who will not listen to reason." He heard Duana splashing after him. "Return with me," she insisted. "You swore you would have faith in me. You have conjured a conspiracy against you out of a few angry words. Speak with Fitz. Or with Prince Llewelyn."

He continued wading away from her, toward the fishing pole hung in the tree branch. 

"Fitz has not tried to take Gwynedd," Duana called. "He said nothing to me of trying you as a traitor or heretic, nor does he want a war with Wales. He has given me Pembrokeshire-"

"Which you will hold with what army?" Gwilym asked sarcastically. He splashed chest-deep toward the middle of the stream. "I have never seen armor for a pregnant woman, Cariad. Marshal FitzWalter has given himself Pembrokeshire wrapped as a wedding gift. I should never have taken you from Pembroke Castle."

"You did not take me from Pembroke Castle, William," she responded. "I came to you-"

"Directly from FitzWalter's bed, I suspect." 

"Listen to me!"

"I am listening," he yelled back. "I have done what you asked. For whatever good it does, I acknowledge you as my hearth wife. You are welcome to anything I have – which is nothing."

Duana could not swim. She disliked even bathing in water deeper than her thighs. She would not venture farther into the stream. Instead, she stood in cold water up to her waist and yelled, "You are not finished with life merely because it becomes unpleasant, William. You have people who need you, children who need you!"

Since there was no reasoning with her, he did not bother to respond. Gwilym swam beneath the tree limb overhanging the stream and surveyed the snarl of branches and leaves, pole and string. The hook, worm still wiggling, hung beyond reach as Gwilym treaded water. He could not have chosen a more inconvenient place to tangle it. He could cut the steel hook free and leave the rest, but his dagger remained on the bank. 

"William," Duana called. A second later, again, "William." 

At the uncertainty in her voice, he turned toward her in the water. She remained far from the bank, and he thought she might be afraid of the current or losing her balance. Instead, Duana had a hand on her abdomen, and a pained look with which, unfortunately, Gwilym was too familiar. 

Gwilym cursed Duana's stubbornness and foolishness. He cursed his own inability to make a timely exit months ago, and his lust and impulsiveness last night. He cursed FitzWalter and Normans in general as he swam and waded back to her. They were a half-mile from the hut but she could rest in the shade until he brought the horse. Even if he had to tie her to the saddle, she was going to the priory. Today.

"Come." He offered Duana his hand. "You risk that child by acting like a child."

Duana shook her head this pain was too bad for her to move. She had both hands on her belly and leaned forward as if protecting herself from a beating. Her face looked ashen, and she struggled to breathe.

He waited beside her, not knowing what else to do. Lecturing Duana the babe was his blood and FitzWalter's heir – and she must take better care of herself - seemed inappropriate now.

"William," she managed to say. "Oh God."

"What is wrong?

"It hurts." 

"He is coming?" he said quickly. "Did I do this?"

She nodded and cried out – not in labor but in agony, like a mortally wounded animal. Gwilym felt someone reach into his own belly, grab something vital, and wrench it out.

Duana swayed, and Gwilym moved to catch her. As Gwilym picked her up, a bright red cloud blossomed in the water.

He carried Duana out of the stream but had no place to take her. There was no one – no doctor, no midwife, no soul – for miles in any direction. He laid her on the bank. "Duana?" He shook her shoulders.

She did not respond.

Insects buzzed. Water dripped from his beard onto her gray face. The heat, he told himself. The sun and the lack of food and arguing with him and lovemaking had upset her humors. If Duana remained flat and rested, the pains would pass. 

He found his discarded shirt. He wet it in the stream and wiped her face. Her arms. Legs. 

She did not move.

For the first time in months, Gwilym prayed to God. To The Virgin. To any god listening. He prayed Duana would open her eyes and tell him she was fine. He prayed God would not punish him by taking Duana.

A dark spot spread on the wet fabric of her skirt. Remembering what he saw her mother do after Mab's birth, he wadded up his wet shirt and pressed it between her legs. On the light linen fabric, he watched a crimson splotch appear and grow at a frightening rate. 

"Duana, wake up," he commanded. "Tell me what to do. Something is wrong. You are bleeding, and this child cannot come so soon."

After an eternity, she opened her eyes drunkenly. She looked down at her abdomen, and up at the cloudless sky. She closed her eyes. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I did not want you to see this."

The resignation in her voice terrified Gwilym more than the blood. 

"Do not leave me." He shook her again. He smacked her cheek. “Wake up.” He slapped harder, trying to get her to respond. "Wake up; tell me what to do. I did not leave you. Do not leave me!"

All he managed to do was make her nose bleed.

Duana's hand moved across the grass. He took her hand like a drowning man but the bloodstain continued to bloom on the old shirt. Despite the heat, she began to shiver. The flesh so warm last night seemed sapped of all warmth now. "Go to Llewelyn," she whispered weakly. "Promise me."

He barely heard her. "Please," he pleaded hoarsely. He wiped her face with his free hand, smearing blood everywhere. "I am so sorry. I am so very sorry," he chanted like a remorseful child. "Do not leave me."

Her other hand moved toward something he could not see. Gwilym knew what would happen next. She mumbled a name and that name was not Gwilym's.

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth IX: Dechrau

Hiraeth X: Diwedd

*~*~*~* 

FitzWalter wanted to drag William out of those God-forsaken Welsh mountains and hold the heretical coward accountable. William had gotten Duana with child, and William abused and abandoned her. FitzWalter's wrath extended to Prince Llewelyn, who seemed nonplussed by Duana's disappearance. The world was unjust, however. Llewelyn had Duana's son as his heir, and Gwilym had his peasant mistress and their child. A son, rumor had it. FitzWalter doubted the Welshmen lost sleep worrying over Duana and her unborn babe.

FitzWalter recalled falling asleep with Duana – both of them bolstered by brandywine – and waking to find her gone. At first, he thought she returned to her own chambers. She might be embarrassed or concerned about propriety; she was not yet his wife. He got up to check on her, but her apartment was empty. As was his office and the great hall, and anywhere else he could blearily conceive Duana might be in the middle of the night. A horrible realization dawned. Duana was not absent from FitzWalter's bed; she was absent from Pembroke Castle.

As his knights searched Pembrokeshire, FitzWalter waited for the ransom demand. He prayed for a ransom demand. Whoever kidnapped Duana wanted one of two things: to extract money from FitzWalter – which he would gladly pay - or to force Duana into marriage and claim her dowry. To be valid, a marriage must be performed by the Church and consummated. 

No ransom demand came. 

FitzWalter stationed knights with every priest within two hundred miles. He forbade marriage ceremonies. He put knights at the ports to ensure no man took her abroad. He made a list of unmarried noblemen throughout Europe rash enough to kidnap Duana and powerful enough to try to claim Pembrokeshire. Besides William of Aber. 

Long summer days and ever longer nights dragged past.

Prince Llewelyn's knights arrived at Pembroke Castle, bringing a Welsh nursemaid and a pretty little blonde girl who looked like Duana. Young King Henry had nightmares. FitzWalter had nightmares. He offered a reward, and a larger reward. He sent knights to check the nunneries, in case Duana's kidnapper came to his senses and abandoned her in one.

The royal court returned to London. FitzWalter continued to oversee the business of England, though perfunctorily and distractedly. He sent Kym away after he woke and mistook her for Duana returned to his bed. FitzWalter took to riding out of London and searching the countryside for Duana. A noblewoman at court was roughly as pregnant as Duana; FitzWalter found himself watching the woman more than was proper. He tried to befriend little Eimile. He bought Masses and absolution in case God punished him or Duana for lust or adultery or some other sin. He prayed – first for her and the baby's safe return, and then merely for Duana's life. By August, he prayed for a miracle.

One afternoon in late summer, as Henry hawked and FitzWalter pretended to watch, a cloud of dust approached from the west. He heard hoof beats: a large horse ridden fast and breathing hard. A young royal knight came into view, riding a lathered horse as if demons pursued him. The man called frantically, "My Lord! My Lord," not even nominally addressing Henry. "I have news of Lady Duana!"

FitzWalter's heart tripled its pace while his lungs collapsed. The knight held out a small gold cross decorated with rubies. The necklace, he claimed, came from Carmarthen Priory in the south of Wales.

*~*~*~* 

Spendan was a man who arranged things from the shadows. For King John and King Richard and even their father and grandfather. For an eternity, he served powerful men who pursued carnal pleasure and shirked messiness. Spendan knew Old Magic, and poisons, and torture. And fire; he liked fire. For a price, he resolved ugly but necessary matters kings did not want weighing on their conscience.

Whatever his name once was, Old King John had dubbed him "Spendan," claiming payment for his services spent the royal treasury. Men paid handsomely to feel absolved of their sins. Sometimes pretty women possessed inconvenient husbands. Young girls (or boys) possessed protective fathers. Wives failed to conceive. Sometimes old noblemen refused to die in a timely manner or eldest sons proved disappointing heirs. Vice and vengeance, victory and peace of mind: all were available to the highest bidder.

Now Spendan's son, as seneschal, arranged things for the King John's young son, and the new Kingmaker had no need of Old Spendan. Count Marshal FitzWalter believed young King Henry could rule cleanly and fairly. Nobly and as the Christian God intended. Count Marshal FitzWalter was not raised or destined to be a king. His father had suffered the same malady: too little ruthlessness and too much loyalty. 

The former Queen of England, however, understood power and necessity. Even her father's and grandfather's wealth could not buy back her crown, but she could buy other things. Anyone who thought kings cruel had never dealt with an angry queen. The Romans wrote of the Furies: scorned women seeking vengeance. The Romans knew.

"Hurt him," Isabelle had commanded, and paid Old Spendan a king's ransom. "Hurt FitzWalter however you can."

Finding FitzWalter's intended bride seemed a fine way to begin. Destroy FitzWalter's heir and send FitzWalter the pretty Irish woman in pieces. Spendan knew Lady Duana was in Carmarthen Priory, but the monks refused admittance to the man Spendan sent to the gate disguised as a knight. No matter. If Lady Duana would not come out, he would force her out.

Old Spendan liked fire.

*~*~*~* 

God had snuffed out the stars. The moon was a distant, cold observer. Nothing remained remarkable or tethering. Gwilym drifted across Wales like a silent ghost. He passed a fine cliff but was too cowardly to throw himself off it. If Gwilym jumped into the river, he would eventually swim rather than drown. His sword remained with Duana; he could not impale himself upon it. Fire frightened him. He did not know poisons and he could not find his rope. Gwilym lived due to a lack of other options.

Festive ruins littered the misty valley: discarded beer barrels and burnt-out bonfires and men left to sleep where they collapsed. Llewelyn's guards snored drunkenly. Gwilym could have stolen every knight's horse in the pens. Whatever the cause for celebration among the Welsh knights, the celebrating looked to have been raucous. Lonely, bored soldiers needed little excuse for a party.

As Gwilym left his horse with the others, he heard a familiar nicker and hooves approaching through the mist. Goliath's large head appeared over the next gate. Gwilym went to the horse. Goliath pushed at Gwilym's chest affectionately. He patted the horse's neck. "Hello, old boy," Gwilym said quietly. "Llewel must be expecting me."

Goliath made a low, welcoming rumble in his chest.

Gwilym rested his forehead against Goliath's. So many battles and miles together. Memories tried again to creep into his mind. A week ago, he had held the tiniest of babies, praying it would breathe and live. It did not, of course. As Gwilym relinquished the child to the monks to be buried, his breath might as well have left his body, as well.

The horse nudged Gwilym, impatiently wanting treats. "I have nothing," Gwilym told him.

Goliath nudged again, harder. Gwilym pushed him away. Goliath tried a third time, and Gwilym smacked the stallion's tender nose. Goliath snorted in surprise and stepped back. Gwilym's hand stung, but the spoiled horse must learn. Gwilym had warned him.

He tried to get the horse to return. Goliath did not reemerge from the darkness.

Gwilym stared into the dark corral a long time. Leaving the horse pens, he moved through the camp. A knight stumbled out of a tent and, recognizing Gwilym, saluted before heading for the trees to relieve himself. A sleeping squire stirred. The remains of a roasted pig hung on a spit. A disheveled prostitute stood at the entrance to a tent and watched Gwilym pass. Her eyes looked as empty as Gwilym felt.

He moved through the fog out of habit and promise. He had promised Duana, and this last promise, he would keep. Two weeks ago, the King's knights had been as thick as fleas on a mongrel dog. In the days it took Gwilym to reach the Llewelyn's army camp, he passed no Welsh or English knights until tonight.

Gwilym slipped into a large, dim tent. A candle stub burned on a table, atop an open map. Prince Llewelyn slept alone and nude on a wide pallet, but the indention on the pillow beside him suggested female company earlier. Moving silently, Gwilym leaned his bearded face close to Llewelyn's and whispered, "I think you need new guards, Llewel."

From the shadows inside the tent, Merfyn's rusty voice replied, "Think again, Llwynog."

Merfyn tackled Gwilym, pulling him off the Prince's bed and pinning him on the floor. Gwilym did not resist. His face pressed hard against a rough rug and, above him, Merfyn smelled of roast pork and ale. In some corner of his mind, the smells made Gwilym yearn for a drink and a nice pork pie before he died.

"Gwil?" Llewelyn sat up unhappily and scratched the back of his head. "I had begun to worry about you," he muttered, seeming not entirely sober. "Dead or not, usually you turn up within a fortnight."

Merfyn let go of Gwilym and, to Gwilym's surprise, offered his hand to help Gwilym sit up. 

Llewelyn yawned and pulled the blanket across his lap. "Did you take Lady Duana from Pembroke Castle?"

"I did," Gwilym responded cautiously, as Merfyn left the tent.

Llewelyn nodded. "I suspected as much, so I did not truly search for her. Though I told FitzWalter I did. I take it you object to FitzWalter marrying Duana." Llewelyn exhaled tiredly and lay down again. "You could have objected to the marriage banns, Gwil. FitzWalter is frantic. He sends me messengers demanding you return to London. He-"

Merfyn returned with a torch and a full wineskin. He tossed the wineskin to Gwilym, who caught it automatically.

Llewelyn rolled on his side. "He has let the French slip back into Dover, and the Scots have their kilts in a twist again. FitzWalter needs a strategist. He wants you to spend April through October with his army or in London, and winter in Aber."

Gwilym got his mouth to move. "In exchange for what?"

"In exchange for your life and kingdom, I suppose. You are my vassal, and FitzWalter demands it of me. I can argue you are firstly my general, but FitzWalter speaks for the King. You must return to London. FitzWalter is one lost battle or new tax away from England looking to France for a new king - and a new Kingmaker. He needs to win and he needs you to help him do it." 

Llewelyn held out his hand for the wineskin. Gwilym passed it to him. "He had branded me a traitor, and he is correct." 

"FitzWalter can have a dead traitor or a live general," Llewelyn said practically. "Since there is no choice, I suggest you accept his terms. You did refuse his last command, and Guto and I did dice up his seneschal. Duana was not in Rosslyn Castle, but in Pembrokeshire," the Prince said, as if recalling it. "Clearly, you have discovered that, but Gruffydd, Mathilda, and I learned it after removing the seneschal's ear. You had left court." Llewelyn paused. "That little pagan girl is good with a blade." 

A long silence followed.

Gwilym welcomed death. He courted it. He would bring Death flowers and play it a tune. He did not relish winning FitzWalter's wars but watching FitzWalter with Duana seemed worse than death.

"FitzWalter does not know you have his bride," Llewelyn said. "That complicates things, but Duana is your wife. She carries your child."

"She does not." 

Llewelyn looked at him with an unhappy, uncomprehending crease between his brows. "Am I to say this latest child is mine? Christ, your wife is fertile and your schemes are complicated, Gwil. I wish you would write them down so I can keep my lines straight." Llewelyn took a long drink of wine. "Your son – he was walking the last I saw him. Of course, he is pretty. No boy needs such lips and lashes."

Gwilym could not fathom Mab walking. He remembered a tiny infant from a lifetime ago. 

"I have news, Gwil," Llewelyn continued. "A messenger arrived last night from Dolwyddelan Castle. Guto's Saxon girl is with child. I am to be a grandfather. Joanna complains Mathilda washes in the chapel's font of holy water and makes blood sacrifices to Woden, but more importantly: I am to have a pagan grandchild."

Gwilym stared at the Prince. Llewelyn seemed delighted at his broken son's bastard by a pagan whore. Gwilym was not to have a grandchild, pagan or otherwise.

Merfyn cleared his throat. "Elan is with child as well. The cream from the alchemist does not prevent babies but it makes her hands soft. Llwynog, you could have joined in the feast. I count nine future sons and grandsons celebrated, and I witnessed two fine conceptions tonight."

Llewelyn looked blearily at the old sergeant. "How long have you been in my tent?"

"Long enough, my lord," Merfyn responded.

Gwilym swallowed. After a few tries, he hollowly, "Duana is no longer with child."

Merfyn looked at Gwilym worriedly.

Llewelyn sat up again. "What happened, Gwil? Where is Duana?"

"Tell FitzWalter I will lead his army," Gwilym said.

"What happened?" Llewelyn repeated. 

"Duana is no longer with child," Gwilym snapped. "That is what happened. Do you imagine I lit candles and prayed to The Virgin until God blessed her with a child born too soon to live? Did you fast and flagellate yourself in the hope of watching your wife start to bleed and writhe in pain? Is that how you manage all your stillborn sons, Llewel?"

"Of course not," Prince Llewelyn said evenly. After a few seconds, he added in the same displeased voice, "My condolences."

Gwilym gritted his teeth until an ache spread from his jaws to his forehead. He heard his pulse in his ears. "Offer your sympathies to FitzWalter. Duana is no longer my wife, and her son, not my heir."

Llewelyn's head moved back a fraction of an inch. "That is untrue, Gwil. Or, if it is true, Duana had no choice and FitzWalter will pay dearly for touching her. Where is Duana? Is she still alive?"

Gwilym listened to his pulse pounding. Merfyn gave the Prince another worried glance. 

"Christ, Gwil," Llewelyn said softly. "What have you done? Duana would have done anything for your sake. That woman loves you-"

Like a serpent striking, Gwilym attacked Llewelyn. He had one hand on Llewelyn's wrist and the other on Llewelyn's throat as they struggled. Llewelyn was strong, but Gwilym had the advantage. "You are a bastard." Gwilym began to squeeze Llewelyn's throat. "A greedy, arrogant, short-sighted bastard. Just fuck her, Llewel. Stop imagining it as you let other men abuse her and do it yourself. Hold her down and get your own pretty son instead of lying about mine."

Gwilym felt a knife blade press against his own neck. "Do not make me choose between you and my prince, Llwynog," Merfyn said quietly. "To say such things, you are not in your right mind. Sit back."

Gwilym released Llewelyn, raised his hands, and slowly sat back. Merfyn removed his dagger from Gwilym's throat. Gwilym heard him sheathe it.

"You cannot drop your sword because your hand is momentarily numb, and you cannot abandon life because it becomes painful," Merfyn said. "My condolences as well, but I did not train a coward or a traitor."

Llewelyn sat up a third time and rubbed his neck unhappily. "Where is Lady Duana?" he asked tightly. "She is my hearth wife. She-"

"She is not," Gwilym said. "She renounces you."

"Piss on you, Gwil." Llewelyn's angry, hung-over expression suggested he wished Gwilym would limit these romantic crises to daylight hours. "I will not believe it unless Duana tells me herself. Where is she?"

"Carmarthen Priory. Awaiting FitzWalter."

"Ah." Before Gwilym could dodge, Llewelyn's right fist collided with Gwilym's jaw hard enough to knock Gwilym to the floor. "We will go to her, and you will stop acting like a jealous, morose fool. She has lost you son, and you have abandoned her. Do not dare say I am the bastard."

Gwilym sat up slowly, holding his throbbing jaw. 

"I may have no choice about you leading the King's army rather than mine, but you will not relinquish Lady Duana to Marshal FitzWalter. You are to remain married to that woman," Llewelyn informed him, and reached for his brasiers. "Or remarry her. Whatever is necessary. She loves you, and she is far too pretty to be wasted on a Norman."

Merfyn stood by, looking approving.

"Besides-" Llewelyn cleared his throat, and his usual regal demeanor returned. "I want Pembroke Castle."

*~*~*~* 

FitzWalter had ruined one horse and his current mount threatened to drop. He had sent lighter, unarmored men ahead, but he could not be more than an hour behind even the fastest rider. Every twenty or thirty miles, FitzWalter stopped at a castle gate, demanded a horse, and rode on across Wales. Not a war horse, but the swiftest animal in the stable. For two straight days.

He had Carmarthen village in sight. As he watched, gray smoke wafted, grew darker, and began to billow from Carmarthen. FitzWalter prayed, and he did not slow the horse.

Within minutes, the smoke spread. Peasants and dogs and carts streamed from the village. FitzWalter had to rein in his horse to keep from running them down. He demanded to know what burned. The answer confirmed his fear. The priory.

By the time FitzWalter reached the priory, flames engulfed the church. The priory stable burned. The granary. A shed filled with firewood. The priory's tall gates stood open, and a chaos of monks and horses and sheep and villagers blocked his way. 

FitzWalter dismounted. Rather than landing on his feet after so long in the saddle, he ended up on his hands and knees before he could catch himself. His horse shied from the flames. He let the animal go and got up. Everything seemed on fire, as though he had ridden into Hell. Even the trees began to burn inside the priory walls. Trapped animals screamed, while others ran wild and terrified.

He grabbed a monk's arm. "In the name of the King, where is Lady Duana? The Irish noblewoman who is with child? I know she is here."

The monk pointed a shaking finger at a long, low building in the south-west corner of the priory. Flames roared and danced inside the windows, and the roof blazed. Monks swatted the burning walls with wet sacks. One young man tried desperately to enter a burning doorway.

"Is she still within?" FitzWalter asked needlessly. The monks would not risk their lives if apples and smoked hams lay inside the inferno. 

"I fear so, my lord," the monk responded. "Though I pray not."

For a moment, FitzWalter stood rooted to the ground as fire and fear swirled around him. The monks' efforts were futile. Nothing still lived inside the blaze. Even from a distance, the heat from the buildings scorched his face, warmed his armor, and made his cloak billow back.

FitzWalter tried to think. Duana was a bright, brave woman. She knew the stakes. The smoke and chaos offered her good cover. She would need to escape the priory and the arsonist and hide to prevent being kidnapped. FitzWalter remembered the pregnant noblewoman at court, and how her walk began to be a waddle. If Duana escaped, she could not have run fast nor far.

He spotted two of his knights, who told him what he already knew: they could not find Duana. FitzWalter yelled for the men to stop searching and instead guard the road to and from Carmarthen. Another of his knights should be guarding the port. If Duana remained alive, the man who set this fire to force her from the priory could not take her from the village. If she did not remain alive– FitzWalter could not think about that.

Outside the priory's walls, glowing orange embers drifted on the wind. He saw the thatch of a nearby roof catch fire. Once one roof crackled, flames leapt nimbly from house to house, sweeping through the village. Peasants and monks lugged buckets of water from the river and the town well, and futilely swatted the fires with wet blankets.

FitzWalter could not see ten feet through the smoke, and he could not hear over the roar of the fire. He would have advised Duana to run to the river and hide along the bank, but he had no way to know who might have pursued her. He wondered if she fled to the ruined castle. There was no Norman nobleman there to offer her sanctuary; her bastard husband saw to that.

FitzWalter searched the nearby streets, following any path not blocked by people, carts, or flames. The fire spread, pushing him deeper into the ancient village. A body on the cobblestones caught his eye. FitzWalter saw a large man in a royal knight's tunic with his belly gashed open. A blade made that wound, and recently. FitzWalter did not recognize the dead knight. He bent down to see the trail of blood.

"Duana!" He bellowed to be heard over the fire and commotion. 

No response came.

FitzWalter stooped low and hurried through the smoke, following the street and the trail of blood. A tall figure in a hooded black robe passed without speaking. "Have you seen a pregnant noblewoman?" FitzWalter yelled, but the figure hurried on and vanished into the smoke. 

Unable to see more than a few feet, FitzWalter knew he was lost. Rats scurried the opposite direction, a sign he ran toward death rather than away from it. The blood trail continued. He wrapped his cloak over his mouth and nose, and he kept going.

He spotted a pool of blood on the cobblestones. FitzWalter lay down on his belly, trying to see beneath the smoke. His eyes stung and watered. He saw nothing, but he heard a woman cough.

Above him, the roaring flames spread from roof to roof, and burning thatch swirled and danced in the wind. Cough again, he commanded Duana silently. Call out. The air felt too hot to breathe. He could not remain here long, if he wanted to live.

FitzWalter spotted a woman's bare, dirty foot. A bare leg. The hem of a chemise trimmed in fine lace. Duana lay curled in some villager's open doorway with her face black with soot and her chemise smeared with blood. Inside the house, the roof blazed. Duana clutched a long, bloody sword no Norman soldier had carried since William the Conqueror's reign.

Her abdomen looked flat. He knelt beside her and pressed his hand to her stomach. She breathed. 

"Where is the baby?" FitzWalter yelled. "Duana!" He shook Duana, but she did not wake. He looked for any bundle or form that might be a newborn baby. He saw overturned furniture and a burning roof about to fall in, but no infant. He held his breath, hoping to hear a cry.

A hand touched FitzWalter's shoulder. "This way, my lord," a man called in French. FitzWalter looked up and saw the figure in the black cloak again. Beneath the hood, the old man's lined face seemed vaguely familiar. "Hurry," the man commanded.

Inside the house, the roof collapsed in an explosion of sparks. Flames spread greedily toward them. Coughing, FitzWalter scooped Duana up, sword and all, and followed the old man away from the flames.

*~*~*~* 

Llewelyn had long thought Gwilym needed a nursemaid and a keeper, and Father John filled both roles for decades. In the past few years, Lady Duana tempered Gwil nicely. She kept him fed and happy and focused on something besides baiting dragons. Now though, Prince Llewelyn got little done besides governing Lord Gwilym.

As if not content with his normal allotment, Gwilym searched out trouble. Gwil considered his oath of fealty to Llewelyn and the King mere starting points for negotiation. Llewelyn spent too much time trying to keep Gwilym from treason – or at least, from being charged with treason. Gwilym hunted unicorns and questioned priests. He read forbidden books and kept company with alchemists. FitzWalter’s accusation Gwilym took Duana among the Druids: likely true. Druids existed nowhere in Wales now except the mountains of Gwynedd and on the Isle of Man. Certainly, little Dafydd was unsettlingly perceptive and precocious. A child born of Old Magic boded well for Wales' future, but poorly for Gwilym's eternal soul. 

Women were simple. Choose a fertile, even-tempered noblewoman with an advantageous dowry and marry her; choose a pretty commoner as a mistress and bed her. Spoil your daughters; celebrate your sons. That approach had not worked perfectly for Llewelyn, but Gwil's love affairs rivaled those of the ancient Greek and Roman gods. Whoever fathered Gwilym's oldest son, Llewelyn was certain it was not Gwil. Diana let more noblemen mount her than the average cavalry horse. Eimile's true paternity was a political nightmare. This girl in Lincolnshire: surely there was some mistake. Muretta and her infant son remained at Dolwyddelan Castle. Llewelyn was not even certain which of Gwilym's little ones he was to claim. He had no idea what would become of FitzWalter planning to marry Lady Duana, and Gwilym allowing his Christian marriage to Duana to be annulled did not help matters. 

Llewelyn hoped Gwilym would announce some brilliant scheme, but one did not appear forthcoming. In fact, Gwilym said so little as they traveled Llewelyn looked to make sure his friend's mouth had not closed over. Gwilym remained far from sober, but alcohol usually loosened his tongue even more. For decades, Gwilym had complained Llewelyn never spoke; Llewelyn spoke well and in six languages. There was usually no getting a word in edgewise with Gwil. 

Gwilym had acquired a crossbow last night - likely by playing dice long after Llewelyn and every other Christian man was abed. Now, Gwil pointed the crossbow at roadside trees as they rode toward Carmarthen, as if imagining the men he would like to kill. With an illegal crossbow.

Llewelyn prayed Gwilym would not try to kill Marshal FitzWalter. The Prince debated – since Gwilym would likely try – if he should truly prevent Gwil from killing FitzWalter or merely help him hide the body afterward.

As Llewelyn watched, Gwilym tilted the sleek little crossbow from side to side, accustoming his hand to the weight and feel. "That is outlawed," Llewelyn told him, trying not to sound like a preachy older brother. "You could be hanged for having it."

Gwilym continued to toy with the crossbow as if Llewelyn had not spoken.

Gwilym wrestled demons. Last night, he outdrank every man in the great hall. He acted even more of an ass than usual and did his best to provoke fights. Gwilym did not speak of Duana, nor the baby. If asked, Gwilym would not respond. He rode to get Duana at Llewelyn's command but he did not hurry. Gwilym let Goliath amble along as if he had no destination and moved because Llewelyn ordered it.

Llewelyn guaranteed the Crown's wrath by insisting Gwilym keep Duana. Duana: the beautiful, bright, (from what Llewelyn overheard from the bedchamber) passionate woman who mysteriously adored Gwil. Who Llewelyn had married to Gwil. Who gave Gwilym a healthy son and brought with her as dowry a fine castle and the coast of southern Wales. Llewelyn raised Gwilym's children. Like a squire, he transported Gwil's armor and horse. Gave Gwilym clean clothing and new boots. Llewelyn anticipated gratitude but instead saw Gwilym pointing the crossbow vaguely at him.

"Gwil," he scolded, "save your treasons for the Normans."

Gwilym lowered the weapon and returned his attention to Goliath's reins.

Since they rode far enough ahead of the knights not to be observed, Llewelyn brought his horse close alongside Goliath and whispered, "Give it here, Gwil. Let me try it. How does it work?"

"There is a mechanism which releases-"

Gwilym moved to pass the crossbow to Llewelyn, but stopped Goliath and stood in his stirrups. He lowered the crossbow and stared at the horizon. Llewelyn followed his gaze. Carmarthen Castle remained in ruins but, downstream, a gray haze hung over Carmarthen village. Llewelyn wondered why fog covered the village in the late afternoon. The rest of the sky looked clear.

Before Llewelyn could take the crossbow, Gwilym dug his heels into Goliath's sides. The horse took off at a full, thunderous gallop. Gwilym whipped Goliath with his reins to move even faster. 

Llewelyn had his own horse follow. Behind them, the Welsh knights urged their horses to gallop. Gwilym had Goliath running flat-out, and peasants dodged to avoid being run down. Even on a younger, swifter mount, Llewelyn could not keep up.

As they approached the village, Llewelyn smelled a fresh fire. He saw the tall, burnt-out remains of the church. Smoke clung to the ground around the charred priory. The gates were open. 

His heart sank.

By the time Llewelyn arrived, Gwilym was off his horse and stumbling inside the priory's stone walls. The monks poked through the rubble with sticks.

"Duana," Gwilym yelled frantically. He grabbed one of the monks. "Where is she? Where is my wife?"

The monk did not answer. Gwilym drew his dagger. For a moment, Gwilym looked as if he might cut the words from the monk's mouth. "Where is my wife?"

The monk's mouth moved but no words emerged.

"Gwil!" Llewelyn warned. "He is a man of God."

The dagger glinted as Gwilym brandished it, but the blade disappeared back into its sheath. Gwilym released the monk and turned away.

"Brother, where is Lady Duana?" Llewelyn asked, still astride his lathered horse.

Soot coated the tall stone wall ringing the priory. Nearby houses had burned. The black skeletons of buildings remained, and the air smelled of burnt hair and charred meat. 

The monk looked up at Llewelyn's armor. "We have not found her body, my lord. Many men tried to reach her, but the flames... We did try, my lord."

"Are you certain Lady Duana was in the priory?" Llewelyn asked.

"She was, my lord. She- The King's knight came for her, but she sent a message to the gate the Count of Pembroke must come himself. I heard the message delivered with my own ears."

Gwilym waded into the smoking shell of a stable. He flipped aside blackened pieces of wood and called for Duana. Llewelyn looked at the remains of the priory. Gwil searched in vain. Nothing could have survived inside any of those buildings.

"Could she have escaped as the fire started?" Llewelyn asked. 

The monk hesitated. "I cannot imagine so. She has lost a child. There was bleeding, a fever. For a time, we were not certain she would live." The monk glanced warily at Gwilym. "He bid us keep her safe, my lord, and we did try."

An ache spread in Llewelyn's chest. Gwilym searched the remains of the church as though Duana might be alive and hidden beneath some melted altarpiece or charred crypt. Much of the ruins remained too hot to touch. Gwilym ripped the sleeves from the shirt he wore – which had been Llewelyn's favorite - wrapped his hands in the fabric and continued searching. 

Llewelyn swung down from the saddle. In case the monk was mistaken, Llewelyn put his knights to work searching the nearby buildings. Villagers surveyed their burnt homes and tried to round up scattered livestock. Women squabbled over who owned which sheep. Frightened children wandered and sobbed. Embers sizzled and smoked as men continued to lug buckets of water from the river to put out the last of the fire.

"She is hiding, Llewel," Gwilym said, appearing beside Llewelyn. "She will hide until FitzWalter or you or I come for her."

"The monks do not think she could have escaped." 

"Help me search," Gwilym requested as if Llewelyn had not spoken. "Call for her. She will come to you."

Gwilym walked every street in Carmarthen calling for Duana. He searched the houses, the riverbank, and the forest. The ruined castle. The smoking priory again. Llewelyn could not find a single villager or knight who saw Duana escape. At dusk, as the ruins cooled, a man found a body a few streets from the priory: charred beyond all recognition except for being human. 

Gwilym pronounced the body was not Duana's. How Gwilym knew, Llewelyn could not fathom.

The villagers began to shy away as Gwilym approached. The Welsh knights gave Llewelyn covert worried looks.

"My wife is small," Gwilym informed the Welsh knights, as if they did not know. "Slight. Look in places a large child could hide."

At nightfall, hours later and hours after no hope remained, Gwilym continued to search Carmarthen. His expression reminded Llewelyn of a dog who did not yet realize his owner would never return.

Llewelyn tried to reason, but Gwilym insisted, "I hear her, Llewel." Gwilym walked slowly, scanning the charred shrubs lining the wall behind the priory. "Do you hear her?"

"Gwil, I do not."

Gwilym stopped and tilted his head. He changed directions, moving toward the trees. "That was the baby," Gwilym told Llewelyn, as if Llewelyn should hear something. "The baby is crying. Listen."

For a moment, Llewelyn strained to listen.

*~*~*~*

This time the bastard Welshman would die. 

FitzWalter did not care about the cost in time or men. He did not care about political relations with Wales, or if Prince Llewelyn objected to everyone from the Pope to the beggars on London Bridge. FitzWalter did not care if England suffered, or the Council was outraged, or Duana's children lost their supposed father. Fitz would wage war against Gwynedd for the next decade. For the next millennium, if necessary. 

Carrying Duana and commandeering a knight's horse, FitzWalter rode for the nearest castle as the fire raged in Carmarthen. The irritable Welsh lord of Carred Castle greeted the King's knights, and FitzWalter informed him King Henry had need of his castle. That morning, the absent boy King had required a swift horse. By afternoon, the unseen King required the whole castle. And a fast ship. A priest. A physician. And - unless the fat little Welshman wanted to join William of Aber in whatever slow, painful death FitzWalter decided upon – the King also required Lord Maelgwn's absolute secrecy and silence.

Duana had burns on her hands and the soles of her feet. She had a bruise on her wrist matching a large hand and a fainter handprint on her cheek. Her face was scorched. Her hair was singed, and her arm bore an ugly burn where the sleeve of her chemise caught fire. She coughed and sweated. She held her abdomen and grimaced in pain. Lord Maelgwn's wife advised a tincture of poppy and willow bark, and a maid put cool cloths on Duana's face and ointment on the burns.

No physician could be found, but a midwife who examined Duana at the castle promised the baby came far too soon to live. That was a woman's opinion, though. FitzWalter had heard men brag of sons born so early and tiny. How a newborn fit in their hand or wore their signet ring as a bracelet. The midwife could not say why the baby came so early - a beating or witchcraft or fall - but she did not have to. Duana wore a little wooden cross on a dirty ribbon around her neck. 

FitzWalter had promised King Henry a sibling. Not a step-brother; FitzWalter could not promise that. But perhaps. Another boy to play with at court instead of a lonely boy King and a collection of boring noblemen. FitzWalter had found Henry trying to tutor little Eimile in French and Latin. Duana's young daughter thought the King endlessly amusing, and King Henry had commanded his old toys be kept safely "for Countess Duana's and Fitz's baby."

Each time FitzWalter looked at the long sword and the little wooden cross, his cold, killing rage grew. He held Duana's bandaged hand, knelt beside the bed, and prayed for her life and his vengeance. The first night, Duana never truly woke. 

The next morning, FitzWalter took Duana and secretly sailed for London with his knights. He wished she could stay in Wales and convalesce in peace, but he could not risk leaving her again. Nor could he marry a woman who was not lucid. FitzWalter must oversee England, and King Henry remained in London, alone and unprotected.

The sails whipped and snapped, and the ship bobbed through the waves. Duana slept in a chamber below deck in as comfortable a bed as FitzWalter could manage. He had commandeered an Irish-Gaelic maidservant from the lord of Carred Cennan Castle, so the woman understood what Duana mumbled, but FitzWalter seldom did. He did hear Duana ask in French for a man named "Mulder," and for her baby. FitzWalter assured her she was safe and he loved her. Duana called him "Walter."

The stuffy room contained a second bed intended for someone half FitzWalter's size, but he curled up in it anyway. The first night at sea, and the second. The third night, Duana opened her eyes but could not see. Blind and frightened and in pain, she clung to FitzWalter and sobbed. That night was the worst. He had the Irish maid apply the tincture liberally, and Duana slept. FitzWalter abandoned the bunk and dozed beside Duana. 

The fourth morning, Duana's sight returned, but she looked through FitzWalter. She seemed to look through the hull of the ship too, watching something FitzWalter could not see. She moved like a woman under a spell, drinking and eating because the maid insisted. She did not speak. She did not ask for her baby, which meant FitzWalter did not have to confess he could not save it. He felt a horrible, guilty sense of relief as Duana slept again.

As the ship sailed toward London, he tried to mind his father's advice: a frightened woman heard anger with no understanding of where the anger was directed. His questions could wait. His justice could wait, even. Duana would live. Heal. And, if God willed it, forget the horrors she had suffered. But William of Aber would die.

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym was truly dead this time. His heart had stopped beating but his body lacked the sense to die. Gwilym sat in the corner of the tent and stared blankly at the fabric side. He did not remember returning to Llewelyn's camp, but no matter. He would wait. Death would find him.

Merfyn brought a wineskin earlier, urging Gwilym to drink. Now, Gwilym picked it up, thinking he would get drunk to pass the time as he waited.

Outside the tent, Merfyn's voice said, "I can send men for Father Leuan."

"Father Leuan is on Crusade," Llewelyn's voice responded.

"He can be found, my lord." There was a pause. "I fear Lord Gwilym is out of his mind," Merfyn added in a low voice.

"Gwil grieves his wife," Llewelyn's voice answered, also quiet. "His wife and child."

Again, seconds of silence passed. "My lord," Merfyn began, "respectfully: I have grieved wives. A young wife I watched die and buried with my own hands. I have grieved a child. I do not believe this is grief. I believe this is insanity."

Llewelyn did not answer. He had grieved a young hearth wife: watched her die and buried her with his own hands. He had grieved children, as well.

Gwilym stared at the inside wall of the tent and took another drink. His soul knew Duana and her soul knew his. They would find each other again, but not in this lifetime. He lost her, and he could not bear to return to this lifetime alone.

He looked down at the veins inside his right wrist, hating the blood still flowing stubbornly through them. He took another drink.

The flap of the tent folded back. Sunlight streamed in as Llewelyn entered. The Prince looked at the untouched pallet and the plate of food, and Gwilym sitting on the rug.

"Lord Gwilym, prepare your men," Llewelyn ordered. "It is time to go."

Gwilym did not bother to turn his head. It was not yet time to go. Contrary to what Llewel sometimes believed, he was not a god.

Llewelyn squatted down near him. "Eimile is at London Court. We will go and get her. Duana's child: it is not the same, but it is something."

Gwilym shook his head. Either Llewelyn or FitzWalter would take care of Eimile. Gwilym was a stranger to her now. Even for his daughter, he could not go back. 

"We will ride north and see your son," the Prince promised. 

This time, Gwilym did not bother to respond. Like the Pagan kings at the end of their reign, Gwilym made himself comfortable and waited for Death.

"Do not do this, Gwil." Llewelyn sounded about thirteen-years-old. "There will be other women, other loves."

Gwilym turned his head far enough to look Llewelyn in the eye. "You lie," he said coolly.

"I do, but I do not know what else to say."

Gwilym resumed staring at the side of the tent. After a few minutes, Llewelyn sighed dejectedly and returned outside. Gwilym heard the Prince and Merfyn debate what to do: try to get Eimile from London Court and bring her to Gwilym, or put Gwilym on a horse and take him home to Aber. He heard many ideas, but none applied to him anymore.

The canvas fabric of the tent thinned. He saw through it, across the wide grassy field and to the edge of the lake. Gwilym felt the breeze on his face and the late summer sun warm on his shoulders. He saw a small female figure becoming clear across the placid lake. She waited for him.

He raised his hand, reaching out for her. The woman raised her hand in return.

Gwilym got up. He dusted off the new breeches and tunic Llewelyn had given him. He picked up the wineskin and his dagger from the floor of the tent. In afterthought, he rolled up a squire's bedroll, taking it with him in case Duana did not have a place for them to sleep. He had his old cloak and a new pair of boots. He was ready to go to Valhalla or Heaven or whatever world came next.

Gwilym squinted at the bright sunlight as he stepped outside. "Good, good," Llewelyn praised. The Prince signaled a squire to fetch Gwilym something to eat. 

Llewelyn followed Gwilym through the camp, and Merfyn silently followed Llewelyn. Ten worried Welsh knights and a collection of squires, servants, and prostitutes followed Merfyn.

Gwilym went to the horse pens. As he approached, Goliath called to him, his neigh a low rumble in his chest. Gwilym patted the black, velvety neck and rubbed beneath the warm muzzle, asking if Goliath was agreeable to one last journey. Across the lake, Gwilym still saw the woman waiting for him with her auburn hair blowing in the breeze.

He saddled Goliath, and fastened the bedroll and wineskin to the saddle. He sensed Merfyn and Llewelyn standing behind him, and a number of knights a few feet farther back.

As Gwilym finished readying his horse, it was Merfyn who asked the question. "Where are you going, Llwynog?"

"I am going to my wife." Gwilym swung up and into the saddle.

Merfyn and Prince Llewelyn exchanged quick looks. "Wait a moment. I will ride with you." Merfyn gestured for his own horse to be brought. "I am always eager to see the lovely Lady Dana."

"Your wife is with child. It is not yet your time," he told his sergeant.

Gwilym touched his heels to Goliath's sides. As the animal started to move, Llewelyn stepped in front of him. Llewelyn raised his hands and blocked Gwilym's path. "It not yet your time, either, Gwil."

Not waiting for his own horse, Merfyn found the closest saddled mount and swung onto the horse's back with a pained grunt.

"I order you to remain here." Llewelyn flicked his open hands at Goliath, trying to frighten the horse. "With us."

Goliath snorted and pranced in place. His sharp hooves came down hard a few feet in front of Llewelyn. He was a knight's horse, accustomed to war. He would not shy or back away. As soon as Gwilym loosened the reins, Goliath would run the Prince of Wales down, charging over eleven stones of man as thoughtlessly as a boot crushed a bug.

"You stand between me and something I love, Llewel. How do you think this will end?" Gwilym asked. He looked across the water again. The woman grew fainter, as if being enveloped by the fog. He must hurry.

Goliath reared. The horse pawed the air near Llewelyn's head, but did not step forward.

The knights formed a large circle around Goliath and Llewelyn. Their Prince was in danger, but danger he purposefully placed himself in, and they were unsure how to help. They could wound the unarmored horse: slashing his leg or flank, and pray they were quicker than Goliath's teeth and hooves. They could let the Lord of Gwynedd go and follow him, but he had been drinking and talking out of his head for days. He might ride off a cliff or into the ocean in pursuit of his dead wife and baby.

"She is dead," Llewelyn said loudly. "You cannot go to her."

"How little you know of women and worlds," Gwilym responded.

While Gwilym focused in the Prince of Wales, Merfyn rode up behind him. Merfyn snaked a hand out. Goliath, knowing the sergeant, allowed Merfyn to grab a rein and stop him.

The woman across the lake grew so faint Gwilym barely made her out. If he did not get to her soon, he did not know when she would come to him again. A hundred years? A century?

Gwilym drew his dagger. The knights drew their swords.

"I will kill you if you do not let go," Gwilym told Merfyn, and no one doubted he meant it.

"I will not let you go, Llwynog." 

Llewelyn still stood in front of Goliath, unarmed and unflinching.

"She is leaving me!" Gwilym yelled at the men, half-drunk, half-terrified.

"She will never leave you, Gwil," Llewelyn assured him. Perhaps he knew more of women and worlds than Gwilym suspected.

The stalemate continued, with more knights arriving, blocking Gwilym's path. Across the lake, the female figure vanished. The fog rolled away, and nothing remained. Gwilym exhaled sharply as he stared into the distance.

"Come down, Llwynog," Merfyn urged him softly, as if Gwilym was still six-years-old and had climbed atop the stable again.

Across the green field, four Welsh knights approached bearing the standard of Maelgwn ap Rhys, the fat little Lord of Carred Cennan Castle.

*~*~*~* 

Father said he loved both boys the same, but Edward was enough older than FitzWalter he got to do everything first. Ed was not the best at it, but Ed was first - to train as a squire, to learn to joust, to bed a girl, to visit a brothel, to ride to war with Father. It set FitzWalter's teeth on edge. But in the end, loved equally or not, one of them was Father's son and one was not. One of them was Father's blood and heir, and one was a troublesome, mercurial obligation who came with the woman who came before FitzWalter's mother. 

Edward was a baby when his heiress mother married Father, and a fever took her within months of the wedding. The Count married FitzWalter's beautiful young mother soon afterward; she died days after FitzWalter's birth. That left Walter Marshal vast lands and titles, along with an infant son and a toddler stepson. Losing two wives within two years had emptied his heart and, despite his age and station, he never negotiated to marry again. Father kept mistresses of course, but the Pembroke household was a masculine one as FitzWalter grew up, with loud talk of war and politics at supper and two high-spirited boys having play sword battles with their father in the great hall.

Edward began to change. He became reclusive and odd, talking to demons and listening their counsel. He stopped smiling. He stopped hunting and going to mass and bathing. Priests and physicians examined him but whatever possessed him could not be cured or cast out. FitzWalter grew taller, heavier, broader through the shoulders. Handsome, with his thick brown hair, beard, and dark, warm eyes. Pretty girls noticed him, not Edward. FitzWalter won contests and hunts while Edward scribbled nonsense for hours. Father discussed campaigns and politics with FitzWalter while Edward muttered in his bedchamber. FitzWalter was better at fighting, better at chess, better at everything. 

One night, Edward went, uninvited, to the bedchamber of a visiting nobleman's wife, waiting for her in the shadows and claiming she loved him. Afterward - though Father never stopped saying he loved both boys - he began speaking of knighting FitzWalter early and did not speak of knighting Edward at all. FitzWalter had liked that.

When FitzWalter was sixteen and Edward was eighteen, Edward returned from Dover with Father bloodied and barely conscious, the French army at his heels, and a pretty, auburn-haired Irish girl who once again, Edward had been first with.

The girl had not been FitzWalter's main concern. Father had been out of his mind with fever, and unable to even sit up on his own. Nothing the local physician did helped, and there was fighting for miles around Pembroke Castle. The castle was besieged, the servants frightened, and everyone looked to FitzWalter to know what to do. FitzWalter knew he did not want Father to die.

The days dragged on with Father sweating and talking nonsense in Gaelic while all Edward did was drag the Irish girl around the castle, mutter, and glare at people. Clearly, the girl did not want to stay with Edward, as the bites marks and bruises on him attested. 

Father owned Pembrokeshire and every person in the shire, including the serf women. For noble sons, there was no shortage of girls to dally with or have warm their bed - all willing, even eager, hoping for trinkets or favor. They could also visit the brothels for more exotic treats but both boys must be home by Vespers and home alone. Except for Father's women, girls from outside the castle were not allowed inside. It 'compromised the castle's security, son' according to Father, though it also meant the Count knew where his sons were and who they were with at night. While rape was part of war, it was something common men did. To force a girl was unseemly, they had been taught, and spoil or war or not, Father would have put a stop to it.

For several days Fitz gritted his teeth, tried to tend to his father, let his father's sergeant defend the castle as he saw fit, and did nothing about Edward.

"Enough! Let her be," FitzWalter blurted out, so tired his temples throbbed. It was after midnight, and Edward had knocked over a table trying to catch the girl as she fled from him. "Can you see she does not want you?"

"You are jealous," Edward accused him.

"Yes, I am jealous of you and your Irish peasant who hates you. For Christ's sake-" FitzWalter looked at the girl Edward held by the wrist. "Ed, does she speak French?"

They had legions of servants and knights who spoke Welsh, English, or French, but none who spoke Irish Gaelic. FitzWalter had no idea what his father was saying, and perhaps this girl could tell him.

"Bring her in," he said, and started toward Father's apartment. 

"No. She is mine!" 

"I am not trying to take her. I want her to translate."

Edward repeated his assertion the auburn-haired girl was his.

"Christ, you crazy fool." FitzWalter nodded angrily to the guards. He had to pry Edwards finger's off the girl's wrist as his stepbrother protested. The knights kept Ed in the hallway while FitzWalter took the girl by the hand and led her into Father's rooms. 

"Do you speak French?" he asked.

She watched him with big blue eyes, cautious but seeming to believe him the lesser of two evils, compared to Edward. With her free hand, she gestured with her thumb and forefinger she spoke a little. 

Father's bedchamber was stuffy with the shutters closed against the night air. A dozen candles burned, their waxy smell mingling with the heavy scent of sickness. The manservant stood by. In the big, canopied bed, Father turned his head toward FitzWalter as they entered.

It was eerily silent. The siege equipment had stopped for the night. Father looked at FitzWalter and the girl, and smiled. FitzWalter was not certain his father truly saw either of them. Father said something in Irish and reached out his hand toward her. 

"What does he say?"

She pointed to herself, and to the pitcher of wine.

"Yes." FitzWalter nodded and let go of her hand. "Whatever he wants."

The girl curtseyed and went to the pitcher beside the bed. She filled and held a cup to Father's lips, letting him drink.

"Ask about his wounds. What to do. If he is in pain. Ask what to do about the French outside," FitzWalter ordered. 

The girl studied FitzWalter. 

"Wounds," he repeated. "Injuries." The physician left salves and bandages, and stitched up the obvious gashes, but Father was not lucid enough to tell them what happened in the battle or even where he hurt. He could move his head and arms, but his legs barely moved at all.

Frustrated, FitzWalter touched his own forehead and pointed to the cut on his father's face. "Wounds. Help him."

"Wounds," the girl repeated in French. "Yes, sir."

Edward kicked the outside of the bedchamber door, demanding the girl be returned to him. She jumped, frightened, and spilled the wine on the bed covers. As she tried to mop it up, her hands shook. Father said something softly that sounded comforting.

"Quiet," Father ordered clearly, in French. He nodded to FitzWalter and to the ruckus in the hall. FitzWalter went to the door and instructed the guards to take Edward to his apartment and keep him there.

The girl looked at FitzWalter again, still frightened. He pointed toward his father. 

She spoke, seeming to ask permission. Father agreed. She took a cloth from the basin and cleaned the gash on his forehead. His arms, and, folding back the covers, his legs. Father asked for several things in Irish. Each time, she complied: bringing more wine, opening the shutters. Father touched his shoulder, telling her something. She ran her hands over it, examining for injuries and not seeming to find any broken bones.

FitzWalter sat down heavily on the sofa. At least Father looked able to give orders again, even if to a peasant girl.

Father continued speaking to the girl, sounding tired but kind. The girl folded the blankets down to his waist, examining his side. She made Father calmer and comfortable, unlike the physician who prescribed bleeding and leeches and dung. 

"Sir-" She came to FitzWalter. "Wounds." She used the French word.

She gestured for FitzWalter to come to the bed and help turn Father to his side. On his lower back was a large purple and black bruise. The girl seemed to tell Father about the injury as FitzWalter covered him with the blanket again.

FitzWalter stood a few feet from the bed, watching them, exhausted but grateful and relieved. 

She was a pretty thing, FitzWalter remembered thinking. Dainty and very pretty under the bruises and dirt. The hair and eyes were lovely. All alone in a strange country. Kind, quick to learn, and wanting to please. Once Father was better, they could put her to work in the kitchens and have her stay at Pembroke Castle. Something would have to be done about Edward, but Father would see to that. Fitz would have the girl bathed, find her a new dress, and let her demonstrate her gratitude to FitzWalter for rescuing her from his possessed brute of a stepbrother.

Not that night, though. That night and for many nights to come, likely, she would take care of Father, FitzWalter decided.

The next morning, FitzWalter found Father sitting up and speaking French like a civilized man. His wounds were bandaged, he was hungry, and he had his wits about him. He never truly walked again, though. FitzWalter told him what Edward had done, and Father sent Edward on Crusade, leaving immediately. Father summoned his sergeant, dictated a message for the Frenchmen outside Pembroke Castle, and the siege equipment stopped pounding the stone walls. 

The lovely Irish girl's name was Duana, Father informed FitzWalter, and she would remain in Father's apartment.

*~*~*~*

Since they did not have to deal with William of Aber, the Royal Council loved the brilliant bastard. To the Council, Lord William and Prince Llewelyn won England's wars efficiently and nearly invisibly. Finding money to pay William and Llewelyn for winning England's wars was Marshal FitzWalter's problem, not the Council's. The French creeping into Dover? Send Lord William and his knights to battle them. The malcontented Scottish noblemen? Send Lord William. The old men thought the Welsh heretic cured everything like some cream from the alchemist. 

FitzWalter saw no use in ruling England if he could not kill whom he pleased.

The Kingmaker gritted his teeth as the Council advised him how to apply their favorite Welsh panacea. After a sleepless night, he had reports ready on the treasury and political relations and Henry's tutelage but the love affair with William's battlefield prowess dragged on until FitzWalter wished someone would outright torture him. A knight appeared in the doorway, trying to catch FitzWalter's eye. Fitz excused himself hastily and gratefully.

"Lady Duana bids you come," the knight whispered in the hallway. "Countess Duana," the man corrected. "Her ladyship. Come quickly."

"She is worse?"

"No, my lord. She is awake. She sent for you."

FitzWalter followed the knight without a backward glance. Duana had been asleep each time checked on her – earlier that day and late the previous night. He doubted she even remembered him carrying her from the ship into the castle, or the physician examining her. 

FitzWalter stopped outside Duana's apartment to remove his belt and sword, and to pull off his tunic. On the ship, the royal knights' uniform upset Duana, and FitzWalter wore a more elaborate but similar red tunic. Likely she mistook the royal knights for the man who tried to kidnap her, but Welsh knights wore red tunics, too. 

FitzWalter pushed that thought from his mind. Priests said everything had a time: to be born, to die, to love, to hate, to sow, to reap. Today was a time to heal, not to kill.

In the apartment, FitzWalter encountered a pair of tunic-less knights keeping Donaes, the physician, from entering Duana's bedchamber. Donaes de Pasquier wore a brown tunic but he was a dark-haired man and tall, nearing FitzWalter's build. Despite his obsequious manner, something about Donaes had frightened Duana. Her maid had a robe ready, but Duana stood beside the bed in a chemise. Duana held a bedpost to steady herself and clutched an eating knife.

The two knights guarding Duana looked relieved to see FitzWalter, as did the Irish maidservant.

"I did not mean to upset the girl, my lord," the physician told FitzWalter worriedly. "I came to check she was still resting comfortably. Clearly, she is not, so we sent for you."

"I sent for you. Keep him away, Fitz," Duana ordered from the bedchamber. 

FitzWalter looked past the knights, at Duana again. Her hair had come loose, and her cheeks and forehead remained red from the fire. The hand holding the knife was bandaged, as were her feet. The thin fabric of her chemise, in combination with the morning sun, left few secrets; FitzWalter's knights looked everywhere except directly at Duana.

"She has been through a horrible ordeal," FitzWalter explained to Donaes. "Understandably, she is hesitant of strange men. It is improper for you to enter her chambers in my absence."

"I know, my lord," the doctor said softly, "but I fear a fever. Or her humors are out of balance, and she requires bleeding." Donaes pressed a small bottle into FitzWalter's palm. "Have her drink this. It will make her sleep and I can examine her. Be careful. Remember the pendant." 

FitzWalter nodded. Late last night, the doctor had held a red pendant over Duana's body and showed him how the bloodstone swung in a circle, detecting traces of witchcraft. Lord William's doing, FitzWalter expected. The Welshman – or Welshmen – had taken her among the MayDay bonfires and done unspeakable things to begat her son. Or William used witchcraft to curse the child she lost, if William believed FitzWalter the father.

A time to heal, he reminded himself.

"Duana," FitzWalter called gently as he started toward her.

"He wants to hurt me, Fitz," Duana responded in a frightened voice.

"I will not allow that." He took another step closer. "He is a doctor. The royal physician is ill, so Donaes examined you last night. I was present; you were asleep. He means you no harm."

"I know this man. He was in Aber before our son was born, and William made him leave. I believe Donaes de Pasquier does mean me harm." 

True or not, to soothe her FitzWalter promised, "He will not treat you." 

"I must," Donaes' voice insisted. "The girl is unclean."

Of course she was unclean; Duana was recently delivered of a child. It seemed an observation for a priest, not a doctor. 

FitzWalter glanced back and saw the physician in the doorway, watching Duana... Hungrily. 'Hungrily' was the correct word. The way a wolf watched sheep. Unlike the knights who looked away out of respect for Duana's state of undress, Donaes watched eagerly. Far too eagerly for FitzWalter's taste.

"Everyone out," FitzWalter ordered, and the knights escorted the doctor from the apartment. The comely Irish maid FitzWalter had commandeered from Lord Maelgwn of Carred Cennan Castle closed the door as she left. 

Once they were alone, FitzWalter took another step toward Duana. "I found you outside Carmarthen Priory. There was a fire." He left out how she came to be in the priory. He expected Duana knew she was no longer at Pembroke Castle or with child. "I think a man dressed as a knight tried to kidnap you. I found you, and we sailed to London. Can you remember?" 

She nodded slowly. "The baby came too soon."

"I know." FitzWalter did not ask if the child lived. One way or the other, it had not. He moved a step closer. "I saw your sword work in Carmarthen. You were brave. You have bested two knights. I do not care to be the third. Give me the knife, Duana."

She swayed as she held the bedpost. She started to shift her weight to the other foot, but winced and instead gripped the bedpost tighter. He feared her falling on the blade. The knife remained raised as Duana informed him, "I bested William once."

"Good. William likely deserved it. Now, though, give me the knife. The doctor is gone and I will not allow anyone to harm you." 

The knife lowered. Her voice shook as she confessed, "I killed the knight in Carmarthen, Fitz. He grabbed me and he was not your man and I killed him."

"Good," he said again. 

After a moment, she said, "I found William's sword beside my bed. In the priory." She swayed again and struggled to focus her eyes. FitzWalter stepped within feet of her. He could grab her if he had to. "William wants Mab to have it. Dafydd," she corrected tiredly, as if FitzWalter might not know her son's name.

"I will see the boy gets it." He took the knife from her and set it and the physician's bottle on a nearby table. "Back to bed. You must rest. I will see another doctor is found to treat you."

She took his hand, but rather than helping her walk, FitzWalter picked her up and carried her. He set her down on the bed but kept his arms around her for a moment. He exhaled, found a place on her forehead to kiss not an angry red, and sat back. 

Duana lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her bandaged hand remained in FitzWalter's. He lingered, though the Council awaited his return. 

"Do something for me," Duana requested quietly.

"Anything within my power."

"Kill him, Fitz." 

"William?" He tried not to sound hopeful.

"The doctor," she said, barely audible. "That doctor is a monster."

FitzWalter stroked his thumb over the delicate bone of her wrist. "I will see no one hurts you again. Ever. You are safe. Rest. I must return to the tedious business of England, but I will see you in a few hours."

FitzWalter returned to the endless Council meeting – but not before he ordered Donaes de Pasquier banned from London Court. 

*~*~*~*

Fitz was mistaken. Duana was not brave but merely empty. She felt like a leaf drifting on the wind, lacking any will or direction.

Duana lay in bed and looked out the window at the Thames and tried not to remember looking out the window with William, watching the French troops approach London. She put her bandaged hand to her throat and touched the little wooden cross. The shadows grew long as the September sun set.

Already, Fitz slept chastely in her bed. He was stoic and chivalrous, but an undercurrent of rage flowed from him. The questions he did not ask could fill books. Fitz did not speak of the baby, or Duana's absence, or William - as though she might forget those things if he made no mention of them. The servants talked of Duana's upcoming marriage like plans for the ceremony and celebration continued. 

William told her to marry Fitz. 

She thought of being with William on the straw mattress, in the stuffy little hut in the forest. The hardness of his muscles, the slickness of his sweaty skin, the raggedness of his breathing. She thought of watching him with Mab - making a drunken fool of himself with his newborn son. Catching William singing and dancing around with Eimile while wearing his brasiers one morning. Showing Duana, that first night in Aber, the daggers secreted in their bedchamber. Giving her a tomb. Arguing over which of them should kill King John.

She knew the baby had been a boy because the monks at Carmarthen Priory told her. She remembered arguing with William in the stream and waking inside the priory. Alone. William left his sword, and her wooden cross, and instructions to start a new life.

Fitz could wrap her in velvet and coat her with jewels but he could not restore her heart. William was gone, and the baby was gone, and nothing remained inside her. If Noble Fitz wanted that, he could have it.

She watched the bedchamber door as if William might enter. 

The door flung open, startling her. The young King scampered in carrying a book – likely having evaded Fitz or his tutors for a moment. Duana pushed herself higher on the pillows and found a welcoming smile for the child. 

Henry stopped short. He stared at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

"I will heal," Duana assured him. An Irish maid – Ailish - had brought a mirror that afternoon and helped Duana unwrap the bandages. Duana thought the burn on her arm might scar but the other marks were mere scorches and blisters. The maid trimmed Duana's singed hair and, after a bath, dressed her in a clean chemise and bed robe. Still, Duana looked like a red-faced drunkard, and fresh bandages covered her hands and feet. 

Henry took a step forward. "Does it hurt?" 

"Like a sunburn, your majesty." Duana showed him her bandaged hands. "Like you have burned your fingers on an oven."

"I have never seen an oven."

"Like touching a hot coal from the hearth."

Henry nodded he understood. He crawled up on the bed to sit beside Duana. "You must regain your health so you can see me joust. Fitz allows me to joust on horseback now."

"On a small mare, and with a bag of straw," Fitz's voice called from the next room. Duana looked to see FitzWalter stripping off his tunic. His servant held his belt and sword, but Fitz waved them away and entered in his shirt and breeches. "Though the bag of straw pleads for mercy, your highness. Why are you not in your apartment? I said we would visit Duana together, later. I have business with her now."

Henry furled his brow at Fitz. "I want to read to Countess Duana, Fitz. Must you put another baby inside her right now?"

Fitz put his hands on his hips unhappily. "No. She is ill. She must concern herself with healing, and we must help her.” 

Henry's posture wilted. He looked guiltily at Duana. 

She took the boy's hand. "Read to me. I will heal as I listen, which brings me closer to witnessing this fabled display of kingly jousting."

Fitz pulled off his boots and had Henry crawl to the other side of Duana so Fitz could sit beside her on the big bed, as well. As King Henry slowly read the Latin gospel, Fitz rested his arm around Duana's shoulders. He seemed attentive to Henry, but she noticed Fitz glancing at the doorway.

The bedchamber door opened again. Duana recognized the Welsh nursemaid and the pink-cheeked little girl she carried. 

Duana gasped and sat up. "Eimile?" she said wondrously. "You are so big." Eimile could barely walk the last time Duana saw her: a sticky toddler in diapers happy to play among William's dogs. Now, the girl wore a pretty little velvet dress, and a halo of wispy blonde curls covered her head. "It is Mathair. Do you know me?"

"Mathair." Eimile reached out her arms. Fitz took the girl and set her on Duana's lap. "Mathair ouch," Eimile said in Welsh, and touched the linen bandages. Eimile looked to Fitz and said, as if he should do something about it, "Fiss – ouch."

"Mathair will mend," Duana promised, and put her arms around Eimile. "How is Mathair's baby girl?"

"Me sleepy," the girl said, still in Welsh.

Fitz touched Eimile's chin and prompted in Welsh, "In French, please, pretty girl. Noblemen want wives who speak French."

Duana looked at him, surprised. She had never heard Fitz utter a word of Welsh. 

FitzWalter shrugged and told Duana in French, "Eimile arrived speaking no French. I grew to manhood in Pembrokeshire. The peasant girls were Welsh." A second later, he stipulated, "Much of my vocabulary is unfit for gentle ears, but some is surprisingly applicable to a small child." In perfect Welsh, he said, "Come here, pretty girl. I will not hurt you. Leave your dress on. I have sweets. Sleep, and I will see you again soon. Where have you put my boots?"

The same three lines appeared between Eimile's brows as often appeared between King Henry's. "Fiss silly," the girl told him in French.

"Fitz is a bore," the young King said. "A bore who makes you memorize countries on a map. No one cares where Flanders or Germany is, Fitz." 

"You will care if you marry a princess from Flanders or Germany, your majesty," Fitz said. "Anyway, Eimile will not have to learn those things. She is a girl."

"That is unfair."

"Many things in life are unfair," Fitz said, and gestured for Henry to resume reading. Fitz toyed with the end of Duana's damp braid as he listened. 

Henry read, and Eimile's eyelids began to lower along with the sun. The nursemaid came to take her, but Duana had the woman wait with Fitz's manservant and Duana's maid and the line of servants who had caught up with Henry. Duana had spent too long away from Eimile to part with her yet. Fitz reached over to toy with the girl's tiny shoe, tilting it back and forth playfully. Eimile opened her eyes, pursed her mouth at him unhappily, and resumed dozing.

Duana held her daughter and sat beside the Count of Pembroke as the King of England read to them. She could do this, she assured herself. She owed Fitz her life, and he expected nothing she could not give. He wanted a pretty, loyal wife to decorate his arm at Court, ask about his day at supper, and warm his bed at night. She had returned to her old life, before William – now with a daughter and a younger version of Walter. God was merciful and his blessings beyond anything she deserved. 

If William appeared at her bedchamber door, she would pick up her daughter and leave FitzWalter without a backward glance.

She watched, but the tall door remained closed.

"A messenger came from Prince Llewelyn this afternoon," Fitz said, sounding falsely casual. Duana looked at him. Henry had reached the end of his reading, and Duana stopped listening long before that. Eimile slept soundly. "He claims Lord William objects to the annulment. I suspect what they truly want is Pembroke Castle, but the Prince of Wales threatens to petition the Pope to reverse the annulment. Fools. You cannot have a marriage un-annulled."

"Is William with Llewelyn?"

"It seems so."

Her heartbeat quickened. "Do they have Mab with them?"

"I doubt it. The messenger came from the Welsh army camp." He paused. "I think of Pembroke Castle as my home. As your home, too."

"You made a bargain. William did win your war."

Fitz grumbled noncommittally and played with her braid again. "Fine. The Welshmen can have Pembrokeshire, and I can have the revenue it generates. But petitioning the Pope... I can persuade the Church to rule my way, but it may mean delaying the wedding. I know you must mend, but how long until..." He stroked her shoulder. "Until I should insist His Majesty, the King of England, sleep in his own bed?"

"Forty days from mid-August," Duana answered. "I do not know exactly which day. Or even what day it is now." 

"A son," he responded in the same neutral tone. He nodded to himself.

Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Fitz gave him a stern look. Duana suspected several conversations had occurred between Fitz and the young King of which she was unaware. Henry closed his mouth.

"I am sorry," Duana said truthfully. 

He nodded again, seeming lost in thought. He looked away. As Fitz studied the sunset, Henry nudged Duana. King Henry opened his book and showed Duana the piece of parchment secreted there. On it, in a little boy's hand, was written in French, 'Fitz is sad. He cried. I command you make him happy. Henry III, King of England.'

"Llewelyn's messenger says William will come to London to assume his place as strategist with the army," Fitz said, and Henry closed his book quickly. "The Royal Council specifically forbids me to kill him, for now. I will grant Llewelyn an audience, but I think it best if William remained in the army camp. I have not drawn blood with my sword in three years, but I remember how it is done."

"I was ill from the beginning, Fitz," Duana reminded him. "Sometimes, it is not God's will a baby live. You cannot hold William responsible."

"He abandoned you," Fitz pointed out. "You would have died."

"He took me to a safe place, and he left the gold cross so you could find me. Knowing you searched for me, William ensured the Prior had something recognizable to you. How could he know there would be a fire?"

"You are always quick to excuse William's actions," Fitz said irritably.

A tense silence settled over them. Eimile slept, and Henry looked nervously from Duana to Fitz and back again. 

The tension lingered until Duana confessed, "I did not want to be with child again. I was frightened and tired and selfish. Instead of thanking God, I was vain and greedy of my body. I-"

"You are none of those things," Fitz argued. "You have done your duty to William and to Wales. Far beyond what any man should require of a Christian wife. The doctor-" Fitz closed his mouth. "You are none of those things," he repeated. 

"But I am. From the beginning, I resented a child that was God's will." Duana watched her hand stroke Emile's back. "A child you wanted even if William did not. I am fortunate God chose to take my child, not me, but I have cost you as well. Do not be so quick to pin your wrath on William."

"You are a bright woman, Duana, and a usually reasonable one. If God took babies from every woman who thought them a burden rather than a blessing, far fewer urchins would beg in the streets," Fitz said. "I have not reproached you, and I will not. If William did, he is a fool."

"I would like to see him. To tell him-"

"No." Fitz spoke kindly but firmly, the way he might tell Henry to stay away from something dangerous. "Neither Lord William nor Prince Llewelyn. Never again, if I can manage it."

"He is my children's father," she protested.

Henry had his book open again. He tapped the piece of parchment and cleared his throat warningly at Duana. 

"What is it you have, Henry?" Fitz reached over and, after a moment of wrestling across Duana's legs, wrenched the little book of gospels from Henry. 

"Fitz, that is for me. Do not-" 

FitzWalter leafed through the pages. He frowned at the slip of parchment. "This is not your place, Henry," Fitz told him tersely. 

"I am the King!" Henry scrambled up on his knees on the mattress. Looking down at Duana, he informed her, "Fitz is not truly my father. Father is dead, so Fitz takes care of me. I am not his real son. He and Kym have no sons-"

"Henry!" Fitz barked.

"As soon as you are well, you will marry Fitz," the boy ordered. "He will put a real son inside you and he will be happy. I am the King and I command it!"

Eimile opened her eyes, and Duana resumed rubbing the girl's back. Fitz held the book and looked stunned. The slip of parchment had fallen atop the lavish bedcovers.

"Some things, even you do not get to command, you majesty," Fitz said. "Some things are God's will."

"I will speak to God." Henry scrambled down from Duana's bed. "Send for the Bishop," the boy ordered, and stomped out. A procession of servants scurried after him.

Fitz sat back, flushed and still holding the book. Glancing at Duana, he said awkwardly, "I suppose I should catch up with Henry before he orders the new Pope travel from Rome."

Duana gave him a weak but, she hoped, sympathetic smile. 

Fitz gestured distractedly for the Welsh nursemaid to take Eimile. "You are dear to Henry, and I have said some things to him I should not. Pay him no mind."

"All right." She tried not to let her gaze follow the nurse carrying Eimile away. "I will not."

Fitz turned toward Duana. His dark eyes traveled over her face. He put his mouth to the skin below her ear, and to the outline of her collarbone, and to her lips. "Do you want to know a secret Henry does not?"

Duana nodded.

He whispered into her ear, "You were the first girl I ever loved."

He kissed her lips again, gently urging them apart. Do not pull away, do not pull away, she commanded herself. Having Fitz kiss her was not awful – merely warm and empty, like bread allowed to rise too long. She suspected, once she healed and the remainder of the forty days passed, what came next would be much the same. Empty, but endurable. 

One of Fitz's hands traveled down her shoulder. She felt his fingers weave through her hair. He kissed the interior of her wrist and the base of her throat. She was blessed, Duana reminded herself. Relax and submit. Nod and obey. She could see Eimile, and sometimes Mab, and Fitz would not harm William. William could win a few battles and return home to Aber. William could raise their son to be a fine man. William could find a wife who brought him something besides heartache and trouble. Have more children. Have the life he deserved. Once Mab was older, Duana might ask the boy about William.

If she failed, all of them paid. She had never mastered the art of Norman female submissiveness though, and, despite William's claim otherwise, Duana thought herself a horrid actress.

She closed her eyes and thought of William – of the first time he made love to her. He had been so careful. Her body relaxed. She felt William touching her, kissing her. In her mind, she drifted hundreds of miles away, to another bed, another man, another time. The body remaining in London: FitzWalter could do with it as he liked. 

The daydream failed her as Fitz brushed the burn on Duana's arm. At the sudden pain, she jerked away.

"What did I do?" he asked anxiously, sitting back. 

Duana pulled up the sleeve of her bed robe and chemise, showing him the bandage.

"I am sorry. I forgot. I-" His throat convulsed. "That was thoughtless of me. This is thoughtless of me. I could not find you, and I feared-" He stopped. "You are not yet my wife, and you have had an ordeal. I forget there are wounds that do not show. I should let you rest."

She took a breath and made sure her voice would be steady before she asked, "Will you return later?"

"No. Herds of noblemen seek an audience, and a parchment avalanche threatens. Besides, the doctor suggested you sleep alone, and Henry will not sleep without me. I will come in the morning and breakfast with you, and return for supper. I am sure Henry will visit, and Eimile's nurse can bring the girl whenever you like, so long as you are mending."

Duana nodded. 

Still, he lingered. "I must go," he told her awkwardly. "Henry's messenger is probably halfway to Westminster. This is what happens when kings have tantrums."

"I thought wars happened when kings have tantrums," Duana said lightly. "To women, wars seem like long, expensive tantrums."

To her eye, Fitz's tired smile looked genuine. He stood. Beside the bedchamber door, his servant held his tunic, boots, belt, and sword ready. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and another servant had lit candles without Duana noticing. Fitz picked up Henry's book and the slip of parchment. 

"Rest. Heal," Fitz said. He re-read Henry's writing and, rather than crumpling it, turned the slip of parchment to show her. As if joking, he told her, "Make me happy. I have a royal order."

Duana nodded again.

*~*~*~*

The business of England began hours before dawn and continued until late at night, but Fitz joined Duana for breakfast. Henry came once for supper, but Henry's servants and food tasters overflowed Duana's apartment, and Henry preferred the jesters and acrobats and musicians in the great hall. Henry wanted Fitz and Henry wanted jesters, so Fitz and Henry visited Duana after supper. Each evening, Duana told King Henry the ancient stories of Ireland and the legends of Wales. Stories of cunning men and beautiful women. Stories of great adventures and brave journeys and true love. She repeated tales William or her father once told her: the bloodsucker of the forest, the fairies of the glen, and the fire-breathing dragon sleeping on his hoard of gold. Henry lay on the rug and listened with his chin propped on his fists and his eyes wide. Fitz lounged beside Duana on the sofa. He complained he would never regain sovereignty over his bed if she told the boy such spine-chilling tales. His dark eyes twinkled, though.

Eimile was happy and pink-cheeked and delighted to see "Fiss," who often had sweets tucked in his pocket. She spoke more French each day and had a dress for each day of the week. Eimile liked waving; Fitz decreed everyone from servants to knights at Court wave back. Duana overheard Fitz asking the little girl if she would like to marry a count or a baron.

Duana's forearm remained bandaged but her hands healed. The redness of her face faded to the pink of an afternoon in the sun. Her soles healed until she could wear slippers without limping. She remained empty, though. She understood the term 'barren.' She felt empty not of just the baby, but of life. She tried to mold gratitude and familiarity into some form of love but nothing germinated inside her.

Forty days dwindled to three weeks. Two weeks. Ten days.

"I spoke with the Bishop this afternoon. Of the annulment, of our wedding, of many things," Fitz said one night as the children dozed on the sofa and Fitz and Duana sat near the hearth. For the first time since the previous spring, a fire burned to stave off the cool night. Fitz held a cup of brandywine and her hand. He seemed focused on the orange and yellow flames. "Father said some Irishman cursed us. No Count of Pembroke would ever sire another son. But soon, I will no longer directly own Pembrokeshire. The Bishop believes, with a Christian wife and his blessing: perhaps. You must confess and be absolved of whatever sins William involved you in, of course. The Bishop advised not risking the influence of any lingering witchcraft. But once that is done, would a baby make you happy?"

Duana started to promise she was happy. Before she could speak, Fitz shook his head she should not bother with a lie. He had drunk enough to loosen his lips but not nearly enough to render him a fool.

"The Bishop believes another baby might improve your humors," Fitz said awkwardly. "Not so soon, but in time. If you wish."

"I am no longer seventeen," Duana reminded him. "I have lost one son and barely managed to carry another. If your aim in marriage is to continue the Pembroke line, I am a poor bet, Fitz."

"You decline?" He said it without malice – and as if he merely wanted to be certain of her answer. "You know I will not insist. Perhaps I let myself become prematurely infatuated with the idea of a son."

After several moments of silence, she said, "As your wife, I would give you a son, if I can, but I do not want..." She trailed off. "It does not matter what I want."

"Do not say that," he responded. "I failed to protect you at Pembroke Castle; William took you from my bed. My absence caused Father's death and you being sent to marry that stubborn Welsh bastard in the first place. I bloodied my sword with Cathers and Infidels when my family required me. I married a woman I despised for love of my country - so the King ordained by God could grow to manhood and rule. Now I guide the King. I trade great evils for lesser ones every day. The business of England: it is tedious and bloody and ugly. For all the comforts my life is blessed with, the greatest are the ones in this room. This-" He squeezed her hand. "I look forward to these minutes all day. I will do whatever I must to protect and ensure them. You may have velvet by the mile or babies by the dozen if it pleases you. You must tell me what you want."

"I would like to see Mab."

"I will tell Llewelyn to bring him in the spring," Fitz answered easily. 

"I would like to write to William," she said cautiously. "Of the baby, of Eimile. For you to read my letter and, if you approve, send it to Llewelyn. I do not expect William to write back."

Fitz worried his lip. "I will consider it." 

"I am so grateful to you," Duana said. "I do not doubt your love, and I understand I am blessed. I do care for you and I want to be a good wife. I- I-" She struggled to find the correct words. "I thought I would die, Fitz, with the baby or in the fire. But I did not. Have you ever been so certain of death you were unsettled to survive?"

Fitz shook his head side to side. "I did fear for you and fear I had lost you. Henry is correct; I was sad. There were, perhaps, tears."

"I know," she said quietly. 

"The hour is late." He rubbed his thumb over her palm and nodded to the sofa where the children slept beneath velvet-trimmed blankets. "I hate to disturb King Henry, and it is an unseasonably cool night for mid-September. If you wish, I could linger with you. Keep you warm until Henry wakes. We could resume where we left off at Pembroke Castle, and see what transpires."

She nodded. Duana had become skilled at nodding. She stood and let Fitz lead her to her bedchamber. She stepped out of her slippers. Fitz helped her slip off her bed robe. Ailish and Duana's other maids scurried to fold down the covers and plump all the pillows, while Fitz's man helped with Fitz's boots and tunic and shirt. 

"Send them away," Duana requested softly as she lay down.

Fitz gestured for the servants to wait in the sitting room. He blew out the candle, and still in his breeches, lay down behind her. Without servants to close them, the bed curtains remained open.

He put his hand on the curve of her hip. As promised, his body felt warm so near hers. He exhaled contentedly, kissed her cheek, and said, "This is nice: to have you here again. Roll over so I can see your pretty face." His breath smelled of the strong, distilled wine.

"Fitz, I am unclean. We are not married."

"I know, and I know you are skittish. I want to see you."

"It is a sin. I-I cannot conceive so soon," she said, stumbling on her words. She still did not roll over. "My flux has not come."

"I would not lead you into sin. That is not my wish. I would merely to pour some brandywine into you and lead you near sin."

"You are not funny, FitzWalter. You call William a heretic, but you make light of carnal sins."

She heard him exhale unhappily. His fingertips stroked her upper arm. "Once we marry and the Bishop absolves you, if a baby is something you wish..."

"I cannot conceive until after my flux returns." Duana took a slow breath. "If you want a son, once we marry, I will tell you- I will tell you when to come to me. Perhaps with brandywine."

"All right." He put his face in her hair, inhaled, and kissed her neck. "I am not going to hurt you." 

"I know," she said, which was true. 

"All right," he repeated tiredly. "For now, I will content myself with sinful thoughts and sinless warmth." Fitz scooted closer to her back, curling up to her as a lover would. He ran his hand over her bottom affectionately. "Do not fret about reminding me when you can conceive. I am to be your husband. Your maid will tell me," he assured her. "Sleep, Duana."

Duana's hair rustled against the pillow as she nodded again.

*~*~*~*

Men stood a better chance at fooling Duana if they remembered she possessed two ears and more than air and pretty hair between them. 

Fitz had said he spoke to the Bishop the previous day about the contested annulment. He said he would speak to Llewelyn about Mab, not send a message. As Fitz left Duana later that night, he kissed her and told her to be slothful – he would likely be late for breakfast. "The unpleasant business of England begins early tomorrow," he had whispered. 

The days were right for two noblemen and a party of Welsh knights to have ridden from the Welsh army camp. Meeting at an early hour would suit William, be tolerable to Llewelyn, and allow Fitz to get the Welshmen out of London Court as quickly as possible.

Duana hoped some message would come: a bribed servant whispering or slip of parchment pressed into her hand. William and Llewelyn would ask to see Eimile at least, but that request would be made to Fitz – and likely denied. Fitz would receive any news of Mab and tell Duana whatever portion he deemed appropriate. 

Duana remained alone and awake in the big, canopied bed as the night hours dragged past.

She rose long before her maids arrived. She washed her face and hands and cleaned her teeth. She brushed out and re-braided her hair. She dressed in a clean chemise and stockings. Duana chose a blue silk dress trimmed with silver braid arriving yesterday. The rich fabric felt cumbersome after so long in nightclothes and a bed robe, and she struggled with the laces at the back. The bodice fit and fell flat over her abdomen. Duana pinned up her hair and put on her veil. For the first time in weeks, she eased her feet into real shoes. 

The blankets that had covered the children remained wadded on the sofa, and Fitz's empty goblet still sat on the table near the hearth. In the dim sitting room, Duana studied her reflection in the new looking glass. A proper Norman noblewoman looked back. Obedient and demure and fertile as a spring day.

FitzWalter had no right, she told herself. He had no right to keep Eimile from her father. Duana was a freewoman and, despite his presence in her bed, Fitz was not yet her husband. He had no right to forbid her speaking to William. Asking after him. Asking after their son.

Fitz spoke for the King. He had every right.

Eimile's nursemaid arrived, bringing a clean, dressed, fed little girl for a good morning kiss. Duana had the nurse leave Eimile and return to the nursery. Duana picked up her daughter and looked again at her reflection. 

Fitz deserved better. He should marry a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old heiress delighted to tend to his every need and obey his every whim. Duana had witnessed the greatest evil and the truest kindness humanity offered. She had seen what lay beyond this world. She was well-acquainted with love and the searing pain of loss. Once they married, she would tend to Fitz's needs and obey his whims but he wanted the girl Duana was, not the woman who now resembled her.

The knights outside Duana's apartment asked if she required an escort. Duana told them no; she and Eimile merely went to join FitzWalter for breakfast. In his chambers. As a surprise. The two men glanced at each other. They exchanged sly grins and assured Duana FitzWalter would be delighted.

Apple trees produced apples. Black ewes gave black lambs. She wondered how these Norman men expected to get capable sons from women they thought so stupid.

Yawning servants hurried through in the hallway, carrying breakfast trays and chamber pots and buckets of water. Eimile waved to every maid and manservant they passed. Duana did go to FitzWalter's apartment but, carrying Eimile, she walked past it. Down the stairs. To the great hall. 

She acted so rashly William would have approved. She did not even have a purpose – except to catch a glimpse of William, if he was there, and risk Fitz's displeasure. William granted audiences with Eimile and dogs underfoot, but FitzWalter liked formality. He preferred Westminster (as did, he said, foreigners who feared once they entered the castle, he would not let them out), but he remained at Court as of late to stay close to Duana. Still, he wanted anyone who stood before the King's dais to be awed, and Duana and Eimile had no place in that.

The great hall would be crowded, she expected, and Fitz would never notice Duana in the shadows. If he did see her, Duana could claim Eimile wanted him. At worst, he would politely dismiss her in public and chastise her impropriety in private.

Duana slipped in behind a servant and remained at the back of the long room. Tapestries hung on the tall inner walls and massive wooden beams supported the roof. Tables and benches remained pushed against the walls. Manservants opened the shutters and lit candles in the chandeliers. The second story galleries were empty of musicians and spectators. The hall could have absorbed two hundred people but held twenty men so early in the morning. Fitz sat at the table on the dais, to the right of Henry's ornate but empty throne. Beside Fitz, Duana's seat also remained empty. The Welsh knights stood on one side of the hall and the royal knights on the other with their mutual disapproval between them.

Llewelyn stood in front of the dais, armored, addressing Fitz. Duana saw William in profile, standing at a side table as though he had wandered off. William looked down dully at an open map. He had shaved his beard and cut his hair but seemed unsteady on his feet. He was too slim, Duana decided. His tunic looked new. He wore a chainmail shirt, a chest plate and gauntlets; his scabbard remained empty. His sword lay on the table in front of Fitz.

"There is Dehdeh," she whispered in Eimile's ear.

Whatever Fitz demanded as Duana entered, Llewelyn's response was a firm, "No. William refuses." She saw Llewelyn cross his arms. William claimed Llewelyn crossed his arms when he lied.

FitzWalter frowned and studied the parchment in front of him. William stood as though not even listening. He looked like a man who had lost a war. No, like he had lost his soul.

See me, Duana ordered silently. Turn your head and see me. See your daughter. 

William did not move, but Sir Mawr turned his head and looked directly at Duana and Eimile. Silently, the big Welsh knight nodded to his twin brother, who looked at Duana, as well. 

Fitz addressed William. "I give you Pembrokeshire as we agreed, and will overlook your recent treason if you rejoin my army. However, there remains a host of reasons your head should part company from your body. In exchange for your life, petition for annulment."

"Unless you have another military genius in your pocket or have become one yourself," Llewelyn said, "you cannot afford to kill William."

Fitz frowned. To Duana, those sounded like William's words rather than Llewelyn's. William remained silent. 

Eimile waved to the back of the closest knight and pointed to Fitz. Duana put her fingertip to the girl's lips. 

"What say you?" Fitz demanded of William. "I know you understand me, you Welsh bastard. Look at me!"

William ignored him.

"She does not want you," Fitz said, as if pouncing on each word. "You cost Duana her child. Led her astray in her faith. Nearly cost Duana her life. You and Llewelyn have her son and her dowry. What do you gain by remaining married to her?"

"The choice is not his," Llewelyn responded.

"Piss off," William muttered in Welsh, at Llewelyn but in Fitz's vicinity. 

Before Duana could hush her, Eimile pointed and announced, "Dehdeh," in a little voice carrying through the hall.

William turned his head. So did Llewelyn.

With her heart pounding, Duana put Eimile down and let the girl walk toward the dais. Her miniature shoes pitter-pattered across the stone floor. Llewelyn smiled. As if moving out of habit, William bent down to pick Eimile up. 

On the dais, FitzWalter looked most displeased. There would be more than a chastising later, Duana suspected. He would not beat her, but his pride would require an immediate demonstration of her affection and loyalty – married or not, clean or not. Regardless of what Fitz did to her, she did not care. Duana watched William kiss Eimile's crown. He took a deep breath, kissed her again, and turned the child to show Llewelyn. 

"You are big, princess," Llewelyn told her in Welsh.

"Me big." Eimile looked up at Fitz and repeated the words in French. She leaned toward Llewelyn. William stepped close so Eimile could give the Prince of Wales a loud, wet kiss on the cheek.

"Where did you come from?" Llewelyn asked. "Did your nurse bring you?"

Eimile waved happily. The Prince of Wales raised a gauntleted hand and gave her a little wave back. Several knights from Welsh Court joined in the waving game, as did Mawr and Mawr Hyll.

William had yet to speak. He scanned the back of the hall, and Duana felt his eyes find her. William's face changed. For a second, she feared he might drop Eimile. He stepped forward, back, and quickly forward toward Duana. Carrying Eimile, William covered the length of the room in five steps. Duana felt her feet moving forward.

"Are you real?" he asked hoarsely. 

"I am," she assured him.

"There was a fire. I thought you died in the fire."

"Fitz found me in time."

His chest rose and fell, but Duana held her breath. The world slowed, dragging seconds into hours. She heard no other sounds. Not Eimile jabbering, not birds outside, nor noises from the courtyard. She did not see Fitz's expression or Llewelyn's, or any other face in the hall. Everything and everyone else vanished.

William stepped forward again. "The baby was a boy," he said in a strangled voice. "He was-" He gestured as if he held something in his hands. His fingers overlapped. "Too small." The pain and sadness on his face made her chest ache. "I did not know what to do."

"There was nothing to be done. Nor anything you did to cause him to come so soon."

He opened his mouth but closed it again. He reeked of beer, as if he had soaked in the barrel. "Llewelyn orders I remain married to you."

The power of speech eluded her, so Duana stared at him. 

His throat moved as he swallowed. "You are lovely. You look like a queen. Are you well?"

Struck stupid as well as mute, Duana pulled up the sleeve of her dress to show him the bandage.

"Mathair ouch," Eimile told them. "Hot. Chaud." 

William touched Duana's arm. His hand shook but a spark moved from his body to hers. The bottom of her chest cleared and she could breathe deeply. Emotion surged through her like a river over a crumbling dam. Her chin began to quiver.

With a flash of steel, William's hand left her. What seemed like a hundred knights dragged him backward. He still held Eimile, and put his other arm around her, shielding the girl as he disappeared into a sea of red tunics and curses and armor. 

Duana tried to help but men's hands seized her as well. Swords hissed from their scabbards and clashed. Eimile sobbed. Servants screamed. Knights swarmed everywhere. Zealous royal knights tried to take Eimile from William, and others prevented Duana from helping William. The six Welsh knights fought to reach and protect William and Duana, and the royal knights fought back.

William crouched on the stone floor. He covered Eimile with his body and called for Llewelyn. Duana saw a man kick William in the stomach and try to wrench Eimile away. Eimile shrieked. Llewelyn's and Fitz's frantic voices ordered the knights to stop. 

Someone jerked Duana from whoever held her, but Mawr Hyll intervened. A blade sliced inches from her face. Metal crashed against metal. An iron arm grabbed her waist and dragged her backward. She struggled to breathe. Fitz yelled. Llewelyn yelled. Eimile still screamed. The swarm of royal knights would beat William to death if he did not give her up. If William moved though, the knights who attacked him – or the Welsh knights trying to rescue him – might accidentally harm Eimile. Duana screamed for Llewelyn, for Fitz, for someone to help. The arm around her waist lifted her off her feet. More royal knights poured past her, joining the fray.

Duana saw men's backs but she heard Eimile sobbing and blows landing. Fitz hurried from the dais, still yelling at his men and now physically yanking them back. Duana fought to get free, but the knight's arms holding her tightened until she struggled breathe. Her world became brownish-black at the edges.

At the end of the fighting, Llewelyn's six knights had encircled and protected William and Llewelyn, swords drawn, teeth clenched. Llewelyn held Eimile. Fitz, clutching a long Viking sword, faced Llewelyn angrily. Except for the man holding Duana, the royal knights formed a larger circle, scowling at the outnumbered Welshmen and nursing their cuts and bruises. Eimile's frightened sobs continued. She was flushed and teary and missing a shoe, but unharmed. Llewelyn's knuckles and nose bled.

William lay on the floor, motionless. 

FitzWalter stepped toward Llewelyn. 

The Prince of Wales reminded the Kingmaker, sword in hand, "She is not your child."

"In the name of the King, put her down," FitzWalter ordered. "Put her down and stand aside."

Llewelyn radiated fury, but he lowered his sword and stepped back. He stooped and let Eimile slide to the floor. The knight holding Duana released her. Eimile ran to Duana. Duana thanked God and knelt to hold the sobbing little girl, but lacked the strength to stand again.

"I will go to the Council," Llewelyn threatened Fitz. "Today. They will hear how you abuse your power and the good name of King Henry." 

William opened his eyes and watched Duana dully. His nose and lip bled, and he had cuts and scrapes on his cheeks and forehead and forearms. Duana began to cry silently. Angrily. Her insides quaked. She wanted to kill FitzWalter and all his knights. Duana caused this, yet the harm to her was a ruined silk dress. William had done nothing objectionable, and certainly nothing requiring a dozen knights beat him bloody or draw swords over a two-year-old.

Sword in hand, Fitz stepped toward William. His jaw was set and his expression promised murder. Llewelyn's eyes widened. Duana could not get her legs to move, but she heard her voice screaming, "Please Fitz! Do not. You promised me. Please!"

For a few seconds, Fitz stood over William. Duana continued to plead and Eimile to cry. Fitz dropped William's sword. It clanged against the stone floor near William's face. "Sign the petition," Fitz ordered. "And get out." He walked on.

"Dehdeh ouch. Dehdeh ouch," Eimile told Duana between sobs.

Duana's arms trembled as she held Eimile. William looked at her as if he still waited to die.

Fitz bent down beside Duana. His tan face paled, and his hands shook as he touched her. "Are you hurt? Is Eimile hurt?"

Duana continued to quake. 

Across the room, the Welsh knights squatted down, talking to William. With help, William, moving as if every inch of him ached, slowly sat up. He spit out a mouthful of blood. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang forward.

"Why are you here?" Fitz asked Duana. "You and Eimile could have been killed."

Before Duana could answer, the knight beside her offered, "Her ladyship asked to breakfast with you, my lord. She went to your apartment."

"You did not think to accompany her?" FitzWalter looked over his shoulder at the rest of his battered knights. "I was not in my chambers, so which of you fools directed her to the great hall - still unaccompanied?"

Every royal knight studied either the floor or the rafters.

"They are not fools," Duana said shakily. She swallowed and steadied her voice. "Nor am I, nor do I need a nursemaid to walk down a hallway, FitzWalter. I wanted Eimile to see William, and William to see her."

A muscle twitched in Fitz's cheek, but he was otherwise still. "We will discuss this later," he said tersely. 

"You have no right to keep her from William," Duana informed FitzWalter. "You are not her father."

"Nor is he," Fitz responded. 

Llewelyn crossed his arms and cleared his throat loudly.

FitzWalter ignored him. His displeased expression remained, but he offered his arms to take Eimile and help Duana up. Instead, Duana remained on the floor and yelled at him, "You swore to me you would not hurt him!"

He said through his teeth, "You swore to me he was a Christian husband. Would you like to know what Donaes de Pasquier told me of William?"

"Would you like to know how I disappeared from Pembroke Castle, Fitz?" she asked. "Do you think the way to love a woman is to lock her in a plush cage and relieve her of any say over her life? I have been a rich man's plaything. Given the choice, I prefer honest cruelty to gilded hypocrisy."

William looked up expressionlessly. Catching her eye, shook his head side-to-side.

"What?" Duana yelled at William. She jerked away from Fitz, and holding Eimile, got to her feet. Her veil had vanished and her hair came unbraided. Strands stuck to her hot forehead. Her bandaged arm hurt. The sole of her foot smarted and her ribs felt bruised. A dangerous brew of anger bubbled inside her belly, and all reason left her head. "Now you decide to object?"

William spat another mouthful of blood. He still sat on the floor in front of the dais. His sword lay beside him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and told her in Welsh, "I said FitzWalter would not hurt you, but that is finite, Cariad. You are impertinent. Continue to embarrass him and he will remind you of your place."

Duana stepped around Fitz, though she got two steps before he put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. "You no longer tell me what to do." She pointed her finger accusingly at William. "You abandoned me. You were afraid to face me. I had lost my child and I was afraid and I needed you! You left me. Do you think anything Fitz can do to me rivals the pain of that?"

"He is about to humble you, Cariad," William warned, "and I do not blame him. You have the face of an angel but the temperament of a mule. Close your mouth now. I am certain he will require you to assuage his pride in private, but I prefer he not strike you in public."

"Because you want to assure yourself my life is gentle and blessed and better without you?"

William frowned and said flatly, "Because I remain your husband, witch." Wincing, he struggled to his feet. He kept one arm around his ribcage, but he picked up his sword and sheathed it. "If FitzWalter strikes you, I must challenge him. Be merciful; every inch of me hurts. I am drunk and battered and likely able to piss blood. I ache – within and without."

Fitz had an arm around Duana's waist now, holding her back. She did not hear whatever Fitz said, but she stopped struggling to listen to William. Eimile's sobs diminished to a case of hiccoughs.

"I am your husband," William reminded her grimly. He started to inhale, grimaced, and seemed to decide on shallow breathes. "I am a bastard and a fool, but I beg of you, Cariad: close your mouth. Provoke Noble Fitz another day, and I will kill him then."

Llewelyn had watched the exchange with his usual lack of emotion, but now Duana saw a hint of a satisfied smile on his face. Fitz, unable to follow the rapid, informal Welsh, loosened his grip and rested his hand on Duana's shoulder. The Welsh knights began watching Llewelyn or William for an order. Just in case, Duana put Eimile down. The little girl toddled, this time, to Prince Llewelyn. Llewelyn picked her up, calling Eimile "Princess."

"No," William told Fitz, using the French word. Welsh, like Irish, lacked a single word for a negative or positive response. A Welshman might say 'I refuse' or 'I agree' but the unqualified 'no' had no place among Celts. The answer depended on the context. 

William's face bled. He stood bent forward with an arm around his ribs, but his response sounded as unqualified as possible. "No. I will not sign the annulment petition." 

*~*~*~*

Saint Arnulf was the patron saint of brewers and the distant sire of Charlemagne - two noteworthy accomplishments. Arnulf died in 640 in Remiremont, in the mountains of eastern France. In 641, the people of Metz obtained permission to exhume Arnold's body and rebury it in their monastery, nearly one hundred miles away. The thirsty procession bearing the body stopped at a tavern but learned one cup of beer remained. The single cup passed from person to person, miraculously never running dry.

Between the Welsh army camp and London, Gwilym acquired such a bottomless cup. Heaven had no beer so drink it here, men said.

Gwilym had prayed for death. He waited drunkenly for it the release from obligation and culpability. Llewelyn ordered Gwilym remain alive and married to Duana. Llewel was an arrogant bastard but his word was law. Gwilym lived. He remained nominally married to Duana. Then they found the burned abbey. For days, Gwilym's nightmares took form and prowled the scorched Earth. Demons laughed at him. He became Tithonus: Death took everyone he loved but left him behind, empty and broken. Llewelyn – being an arrogant bastard - gave Gwilym a wineskin, put him on Goliath, and pointed him east, toward another Norman nuisance to be battled.

Gwilym did not remember reaching London Court last night. He recalled an ale house on the outskirts of London, and another near Newgate. A scuffle with some Englishmen over an insult important at the time. Gwilym dimly remembered a third stop near London Bridge, and loud, drunken talk of lamb stew, and waking sprawled on a strange sofa as Llewelyn demanded Gwilym get up for an audience with FitzWalter. 

This morning, Gwilym first took Duana for one of those mirages men saw in the Holy Land. Clearly, she had defied FitzWalter to see Gwilym. For no other reason than to see Gwilym. Eimile had grown so big - and she knew him. The girl came right to Gwilym this morning, as if he hadn't caused her unborn brother's death or left her mother bleeding and fevered and alone.

The apartment assigned to Llewelyn looked small but serviceable. No one invited the Welshmen to feast in the great hall; the knights said the food brought to the rooms lacked warmth and salt, but also poison. The two men FitzWalter stationed outside Llewelyn's apartment: helpful if an ox needed carrying or someone declared an ugly contest. Though FitzWalter would happily paint the gates with Gwilym's blood, his new seneschal must have allowed Gwilym and Llewelyn and the Welsh knights into London Court - and given them rooms as far from the royal apartments as possible without being outside the castle walls. 

After the morning's audience with FitzWalter, the Welsh knights bandaged Gwilym, and a squire procured willow bark powder and yarrow. Still, Gwilym's face ached and his knuckles stung. He sweated, and he stank like a drunken billy goat. Bruises covered his arms and chest anywhere his gauntlets and armor had not. His hangover hurt, but his ribcage felt composed of hot pokers, sharp sticks, and agony. The Welsh knights and squires milled around – sharpening blades, boasting, mending tack and mail - awaiting Llewelyn. Gwilym lay on the apartment's bed and tried not to move. He yearned for Duana to come and make him drink some horrid tea and fuss over him. Her scolding was palliative.

Llewelyn returned from addressing the Royal Council long after dusk. He sported a black eye courtesy of FitzWalter's fist this morning.

"Be gentle with me, Grandpa," Gwilym requested from the bed. A cut bisected Gwilym's lower lip, so even speaking hurt. "Do not jostle."

The Prince of Wales looked at Gwilym tiredly, and sat on the mattress. A squire approached to help him undress but Llewelyn waved him away. A second later, Llewelyn lay down, still in his armor. His boots reached the end of the bed, and Gwilym's bare feet hung over the edge. Their shoulders touched. 

"I spoke to the Council," Llewelyn said. He rested his hand behind his head. Gwilym lay beneath the blankets and Llewelyn atop them. The evening cooled, and a squire had built a fire in the hearth. "FitzWalter spoke his piece, as well, though he said nothing of treason or heresy; I suspect he has promised Duana. He spoke of the girl in Lincolnshire, and you abandoning Duana and letting the annulment proceed. Fortunately for you, that makes FitzWalter look like a love-struck fool who has been too liberal with the King's name regarding your wife. Duana remains your wife," Llewelyn informed him. "You remain a general in FitzWalter's army. I hold Pembrokeshire, and the Council now holds Marshal FitzWalter on a tight leash. Still, I suspect the next rooms FitzWalter assigns me will be in the royal stables."

Gwilym nodded in agreement. 

"What of Duana and Eimile? Have you seen them or gotten any word?"

Gwilym shook his head. All he knew today was pain. Pain, and the doubts and regrets jabbing at him with their little swords.

Llewelyn adjusted his hands behind his head. "Are you devising some brilliant plan?"

"Right now, I am focused on not taking too deep a breath."

Llewelyn sighed unhappily. "We need a plan, Gwil. A plan not involving your head on the executioner's block."

"You are too charitable," Gwilym said. "FitzWalter would never grant me a quick beheading. He wants to watch me burn."

Another displeased sigh escaped the Prince.

Footsteps approached in the hallway. Heavy footsteps: several armored knights, followed by more men. The apartment door opened, and a servant announced, "Lady Duana of Aber, and Count FitzWalter, Regent of England."

Llewelyn got up. Gwilym tried unsuccessfully to sit up, and lay cursing and swearing he would never move again. He heard a brief exchange between Duana and Llewelyn, and terse words between Llewelyn and FitzWalter.

Duana entered the bed chamber, followed by FitzWalter, followed by servants bearing trays and bandages and basins of hot water. The room could not hold so many maids, so they lined up, stretching into the next room where the Welsh knights lounged. Duana wore a different but equally regal dress; her abdomen was flat. FitzWalter wore a bandage around the knuckles of one hand and an expression of grim displeasure. Duana's face looked flushed and puffy, as if from distant crying. Shame found Gwilym's unguarded flank again and stabbed its tiny sword in the tender flesh.

Duana stopped short. Her eyes widened, and she put her hand to her mouth. "Oh my God. William?" 

"I am your William." That secretly amused him; so many men were named ‘William’ Duana had to specify hers. "However ragged and broken, I am your William."

Duana's chest fell. She looked around the cramped bed chamber. Gwilym's armor lay on a table, along with his and Llewelyn's uneaten supper. Their saddlebags and bedrolls sat in a heap near the hearth. The indention of a second head marked the pillow beside Gwilym.

"Do you and Prince Llewelyn now sleep together?" she asked.

"Grandpa told me I was pretty," Gwilym mumbled in Welsh, and avoided meeting her eyes. 

"Stop calling me that," Llewelyn warned.

FitzWalter crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. His lips were drawn into an unhappy line.

"How badly are you hurt?" Duana asked Gwilym as she helped him sit up. 

"No bones seem broken," Llewelyn answered. "He has not vomited blood. He seems as much in his right mind as he usually is."

Duana took a cup from a servant's tray and held it to Gwilym's lips. "All of it," she instructed. 

He swallowed and detected willow bark and the oddly sweet taste of poppy and something else comfortingly horrid. After he emptied the cup, he lay back. She looked over the cuts and bruises on his face. Within moments, a wonderful haze spread through Gwilym's body, clearing pain the way a summer storm scoured dust and muck from the Roman stone roads.

Duana folded down the bedcovers and began examining the rest of him. Gwilym wore brasiers but nothing else. She checked his legs, moved his shoulders, prodded his abdomen, and gently felt his ribs. 

FitzWalter sighed unhappily.

"What is it you object to now?" Duana asked FitzWalter irritably. "Your men did this. William cannot win your wars if he cannot even stand."

"I do not see why not," FitzWalter responded in French. "Let us prop him up and bring the brilliant bastard a map and a quill. I far prefer you being married to an invalid."

If Duana had been a dragon, angry steam would have escaped her nose as she exhaled. FitzWalter did not object again, though a storm cloud of disapproving silence hung over the cramped room.

Gwilym closed his eyes and let the tea's fog envelope him. As if from far away, he heard Duana speak to a maid, and felt the mattress dip and Duana take his hand. She unwrapped the bandage to examine the evidence of his knuckles' encounter with the great hall's floor and several royal knight's boots. 

The fire hissed in the hearth. FitzWalter and Llewelyn each cleared his throat. Eventually, armor clinked, and a man's footsteps left the bedchamber. Lighter feet followed. A few seconds later, the apartment door opened and closed.

Gwilym looked again. Llewelyn remained beside the bed but FitzWalter and the servants were absent. Two large royal knights stood guard over Duana – more allies in ox carrying or the ugly contest.

"Nothing feels broken or ruptured, though your ribs are badly bruised," Duana told Gwilym in Welsh, which he assumed her guards did not speak. "I doubt Prince Llewelyn will call you 'pretty' for the next few weeks. You should eat more and drink less, but if you are not vomiting or passing blood, you will live."

Gwilym nodded.

"I am grateful to you for protecting Eimile." She looked to Llewelyn. "And to you, my lord. I knew FitzWalter would be displeased with me, but never thought Eimile might be harmed. I never meant for that to happen. Nor did Fitz."

"Nor did I," Gwilym assured her. 

Duana dabbed something cool on Gwilym's knuckles and wrapped them in fresh strips of cloth. As she worked, Gwilym saw a bandage beneath the edge of her sleeve.

"Is it a burn?" he asked. Small burn scars marked her fingers. 

"It was." Duana took Gwilym's other hand, giving the raw knuckles the same treatment. "I killed a man," she told him in Welsh, sounding as if she confessed to a priest. "A Norman knight cornered me as I fled the burning abbey. He said Fitz sent him, but he was not one of Fitz's men. I killed him with your sword."

"Good," Gwilym said. "If you are going to battle so many knights, you should have your own sword."

He saw a sad smile as if she thought he teased her.

After a moment, Gwilym said, "If FitzWalter thinks you are with child by him, I am a dead man regardless of your ministrations or the Council's ruling."

She answered simply, "I am not."

Once Gwilym gathered his courage, he asked, "Do you wish to remain my wife or merely not married to FitzWalter?"

"Both," Duana responded, and begin to bandage Gwilym's other hand.

"Tell FitzWalter you remain with me out of duty," he suggested. "Speak fondly of me as your children's father. Say you care for FitzWalter, but cannot forsake your Christian marriage vows."

"William, I can manage Fitz."

"Tell him, if you were free to marry, you would happily give him a son," Gwilym continued. "Though you will likely not survive the birth." 

She repeated irritably, "I can manage Fitz." 

Llewelyn cleared his throat. "If you remain Gwil's wife, do you remain my hearth wife as well? Am I still to say I am Eimile's father as well as Dafydd's?"

Duana looked from the Prince to Gwilym, seeming uncertain. 

Gwilym nodded.

"Guto has a sword," Llewelyn said as if remembering. "A light, long blade I had made when he was twelve. He has no need of it now, and it is a good size for a small woman. Gwil is a good teacher. He taught Guto and Rhys, and I plan for him to live long enough to teach Dafydd."

"All- All right," Duana responded since Llewelyn addressed her.

The Prince had been leaning against the wall, but stepped toward her. "Your son is well. Strong, bright. Pretty," he added blandly. "I am well-pleased with him. I will station both my and Gwilym's men at Pembroke Castle. Do you wish to live there?"

"I-I-" She held a strip of cloth in mid-air. "If FitzWalter allows me, I want to return home to Aber. I want to see my son."

"We will hold Pembroke Castle for your son. For Dafydd. Until he is of age. That is all of Wales: united and under Welsh control." Llewelyn considered a moment. "I would like Dafydd to know you, Duana. My twins have no memory of their mother. Even Guto barely recalls her. I do not want that for Dafydd."

Still wide-eyed, Duana responded, "Of course, my lord. I would like to know him, as well."

Llewelyn crossed his arms. "Do I acknowledge her, Gwil?" he asked. "Say 'I am yours alone from this moment on, as long as you consent-'"

"Please do not," Gwilym interrupted. "I cannot bear so much delight in one day."

The Prince looked momentarily perplexed. Without speaking again, Llewelyn left, closing the bedchamber door behind him. The apartment's outer door opened. Llewelyn's footsteps faded down the hallway. 

As much as Llewelyn liked women, his conversations with them normally consisted of 'I am the Prince of Wales,' and 'Undress.' Gwilym would have raised an eyebrow, except it hurt. Instead, he teased Duana, "I think he fancies you. However, I suspect your devoted hearth husband goes to pursue relations with the Norse." Gwilym moved his lower lip as little as possible as he spoke. "He eyed a Norse noblewoman in the courtyard this morning."

Duana seemed nonplussed as she tied the bandage across his knuckles.

Gwilym swallowed. "I am sorry." He watched his hand. "For leaving you at the abbey. You are correct; I was afraid to face you. I did not realize you suspected the baby would come too soon. Or you lingered in the forest out of concern for me, not merely to avoid marrying Noble Fitz."

He glanced up at her. Duana examined a scrape on his forehead and did not meet his eyes. She moved to get a basin, but Gwilym took her hand and pulled her back to him. "Do you care for Sawyl?" he asked. "For the baby? The baby that died? If Tyna had been a boy, that was to be her name. Sawyl. My grandfather's name."

"Sawyl is a nice name," she answered in a soft, sad voice. "Was Tyna your daughter with Diana?"

He nodded.

Her hand left his. Gwilym heard water slosh and dribble in a basin. A warm, wet cloth bathed his face.

"William, I am sorry about the baby. Nothing you did caused him to come."

"You were hungry and sleeping on the floor of a hut. And laying with me – roughly, both times," he added, forcefully enough his lower lip stung and his tongue met the taste of coppery blood.

"Like a thousand peasant women," she stipulated. "If I had remained in a bed in Pembroke Castle, sleeping on down pillows and eating calf livers, he still would have come too soon."

Gwilym took his turn at stipulation. "You left out a detail."

She patted his face with a towel. "The doctor – Donaes – he is in London," Duana said. "He has filled Fitz's head about you and Welsh witchcraft and Druid bonfires. I was ill when Fitz brought me back to London. Fitz said the doctor examined me as I slept. I woke, and pieces had been cut from my hair. At first, I thought a maid cut away burned strands; Ailish said she had not. The doctor gave Fitz a bottle Donaes claimed was medicine but had the mousey smell of hemlock. I told Fitz the doctor intended me harm, but the servants say Fitz only banned Donaes from court. The doctor is evil. I feel it. Fitz promised he will not accuse you of heresy, but I fear Donaes de Pasquier will go to the Council or the Bishop."

"I will tell Llewelyn. We will find the doctor, and one of us will see Donaes stops drawing breath." Gwilym glanced at the two royal knights flanking the bedchamber door, and asked Duana in Welsh, "Do you want me to kill your noble rescuer as well? That would resolve this impasse, and it is nearly my birthday."

"Leave him to me."

"Such a thoughtful wife," Gwilym responded. "Do you plan to use Guto's blade, borrow my sword, or brew poison tea?"

"William," she said sternly."

"I can do it painlessly." 

"Leave him to me," Duana repeated. "Fitz is all King Henry has."

Gwilym tried not to look disappointed.

"If you will mind your manners, I can manage Fitz," she assured him. "He has never intended me harm – only, in his mind, to keep me from harm. He is a good man and he truly cares for me. He will put my happiness above his own. As much as you two despise each other, you are alike in that."

"Hit me. Gut me. Castrate me with a dull knife," Gwilym requested sarcastically.

"Nor will Fitz forsake his duty to young King Henry and England to kill you or have me," she said. "He is firstly Kingmaker. He will not defy the Council, and he will not leave Henry unprotected."

"His love of duty and nobility exceed his love for you," Gwilym said. "That is his weakness."

"You love me ruthlessly. He does not. You would risk everything for me. Fitz would not." 

Gwilym nodded she was correct. 

After a pause, Duana lay down, resting her head gently on his shoulder. Surprised, Gwilym put his arm around her. The fire crackled and her dress rustled as she shifted. He felt at peace, as though they lay gently floating on a vast lake. Her hair smelled of sunshine, and her presence comforted him as much as the herbs and bandaging. She was his heart and his anchor. It had been worth it: all the pain, all the loss. Let kings and kingdoms fall. FitzWalter was a fool; Duana was worth any cost.

From six feet away, the royal knights' eyes bored into him. They disapproved but must lack any order to stop her.

"Do not ever leave," Gwilym requested tiredly.

"Tonight, I must."

Gwilym closed his eyes, feeling another wave of the poppy's magic approaching. "There is a gift for you in my saddlebag. A crossbow."

"At outlawed weapon? You are the romantic."

He chuckled tiredly.

"William, I do not know how to use a crossbow." 

"Find my dagger and take it with you until I have disposed of the Norman doctor."

"All right."

He heard a sharp rap at the apartment door, as if this was a whorehouse and the allotted time over. FitzWalter – or at least, someone who spoke for FitzWalter. Her two guards stepped toward the bed.

"You will sleep through the night, and I will send a maidservant with medicine for you in the morning," Duana said as she got up. "Fitz said you or Llewelyn may send for Eimile as you wish." She took his hand again. "He will not allow me to sleep among your men, but he said nothing of, once you have healed, you coming to me."

He felt her warm lips touch his forehead, his nose, and gently and briefly, his mouth.

Gwilym opened his eyes a sliver and gave her a bemused smile. "You will be the death of me, pretty Irish girl," he mumbled.

"I surely hope not," she told him.

*~*~*~*

Two weeks later, and weeks earlier than usual, a hard frost fell on London. Old men discussed the possibility of a harsh winter; servants hurriedly split firewood. Gwilym stood outside Duana's apartment door. His bruises had faded, his lip healed, and his cuts and scrapes mended into new pink skin. He carried a bottle of wine in his hand and a lumpy sack over one shoulder. Butterflies flitted where the ache in his belly had once been.

Two royal knights glared at him, and Mawr and Mawr Hyll glared at them.

A pretty, middle-aged Irish maid answered Duana’s apartment door. A moment later, Duana peeked out. She wore an elaborate robe and slippers, and looked as if she had been asleep. 

"Emile has a cold," Gwilym told Duana. "I checked on her."

Duana adjusted the front of her robe, closing it tighter in front of the guards. "Is she fevered?"

"She just has a cold," he said. "She is sound asleep." He leaned against the doorjamb. "I, however, am not."

"Are you well?"

"In truth, I do have a discomfort I would like you to remedy."

Duana's polite expression did not change but her eyes twinkled. "Have you told your usual bedmate of this discomfort?"

"Llewelyn is off scrutinizing that Norse woman again. He must be chapped from his waist to his knees by now," Gwilym said. A strangled snort escaped one of the Welsh knights. "We leave for Wales in the morning. Tonight, I come to you on illicit business, Cariad, and bearing an illegal gift."

She smiled a mysterious smile and gestured for her maid to join the knights in the hallway. After Duana let Gwilym into her rich apartment, she bolted the door, locking out the rest of the world. 

*~*~*~*

A peasant mistress did not leave a nobleman, so Kym had not left FitzWalter. She merely – soon after FitzWalter returned to London with Duana - asked leave to visit her mother and sister in Cardiff. Kym was young and lonely, FitzWalter preoccupied with Duana's health, and Cardiff an easy journey. He gave her safe passage. So far, in six weeks, Kym had not returned from southern Wales nor sent word.

Regardless, FitzWalter spent his evenings with the young King, laying at the foot of Henry's bed and having the same conversation over and over. FitzWalter could not marry a married woman. Duana remained William of Aber's lawful wife. FitzWalter invited her to remain at Court, but he could not – rather, he would not - force her. He even explained to Henry a nobleman's duty to marry a woman with an advantageous dowry. FitzWalter remained the Count of Pembroke. Prince Llewelyn merely ruled Pembrokeshire for England, and FitzWalter ruled England. Duana's dowry was FitzWalter's in everything but name.

However, if William of Aber died, Duana became heiress to Pembrokeshire and Gwynedd. FitzWalter owned Striguil and Leicester as well as large estates in Ireland and Normandy. For one nobleman to hold the coast of Wales, the center of England, the east of Ireland, and the north of France: that Welsh bastard's death seemed a political necessity. 

Long after midnight, FitzWalter left Henry asleep in the royal apartment, and slipped out. His shoulders ached and his temples pounded. His own bed would be cold, and his office offered the threat of a parchment avalanche. He could not marry who he pleased and he could not kill who he pleased. This Kingmaker business was not as he had imagined.

"FitzWalter," a voice called casually from the shadows.

He stopped, at first imagining he heard Father.

In French, the voice said, "My lord." An old man in a dark robe stepped into the torchlight. His face was deeply lined but his eyes shown bright as a snake's beneath his black hood. He held a single candle. After a second, FitzWalter recognized him. This man had been in Carmarthen, and led FitzWalter, carrying Duana, to safety. "Is your wife well? The Lady Duana?"

"Lady Duana is well," FitzWalter answered politely. "She is Lord William's of Aber's wife, not mine."

"I misread the banns. I thought she was to be your wife."

FitzWalter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The guards should not allow this man to roam so near the royal apartments.

"King Henry has a new seneschal," the old man observed. 

FitzWalter did not respond. Pointing FitzWalter away from a fiery death garnered the old man a "thank you" and a few coins, not access to young King Henry's private affairs. 

"I am sorry I could not save Lady Duana's son," the old man continued in an oddly familiar manner. "But I can make amends. Come with me, my lord. There is something you must see."

Unaccustomed to being commanded to do anything – except by the myopic, ancient fools in the Royal Council - FitzWalter thought he misheard again. The old man turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Perplexed, FitzWalter followed the echoing footsteps away from Henry's apartment, past his own, and turned the corner toward Duana's rooms. Four knights and two torches flanked Duana's door. Duana's Irish maid – still unreturned to Carred Cennan Castle – stood wrapped in one Welsh knight's cloak while having a flirtatious, if stilted, conversation with the other nearly-identical hulking Welshman. After that, the hallway became murky darkness. The old man turned before Duana's door, down a steep, narrow set of steps servants used. FitzWalter checked his dagger and sword were on his belt, and he followed.

Half-way down the steps, the old man put his hand to the wall and pushed the edge of a rectangular stone. It pivoted to create a crack two fingers wide in the wall of Duana's sitting room. He blew out the candle. "Look," he whispered in the darkness. 

FitzWalter heard Duana's laughter. Drunken giggling, in fact. Warmth and yellow firelight seeped through the space between the stones. 

"How dare you spy on her," FitzWalter whispered forcefully. "Did you loosen this stone?"

"This stone has been loose as long as this apartment has held beautiful noblewomen and this castle held jealous noblemen," the old man promised.

Something met wood with a sharp sound. Duana giggled again. "Semper excelsius," she said disappointedly. In Latin, ‘always higher.’

To FitzWalter's surprise, William of Aber's voice encouraged, "Patientia et perseverantia." Patience and perseverance. The Welshman's Latin was accented but passable.

"She is a lovely creature," the old man said passively. "Bright. Brave. Her sons will be great men."

Duana was a lovely creature. Despite himself, FitzWalter looked past the old man and at the movement inside the room. 

Duana and William sat on the rug in front of the crackling hearth. William wore brasiers; Duana appeared wrapped in a huge bed sheet and nothing else. Her hair was down but loosely braided. She sat between William's legs, with her back to him. An empty wine bottle lay on the floor nearby beside a handful of short arrows. 

As William kissed her shoulder and neck, Duana fiddled with some short length of wood. After a moment, William took it from her, put his bare foot at one end of the little wooden post, and pulled back what FitzWalter realized was the drawstring of a small crossbow. Not a crossbow a man would use in battle – if they were legal – but a hunting weapon for a boy. William fitted an arrow and passed the crossbow back to Duana. With his arms around her, he helped Duana aim at a piece of parchment tacked to a wooden beam across the room. One arrow already lodged a yard higher than the parchment, and one touched the top edge. 

Duana furrowed her brow, concentrating, and pulled the trigger. With a whoosh and a sharp smack, the arrow pierced the center of the parchment. She turned, giggling again, seeming tipsy and pleased with herself. William smiled and kissed her.

"Vae victo," Duana told him triumphantly in Latin. ‘Woe to the conquered.’ Still holding the crossbow, she put her arms around his neck. The sheet slipped down.

In response, William moved forward so she lay back. He told her in Latin, "For tonight, let others wage war."

While they kissed, he unwrapped the sheet as if she was a gift, revealing pale skin glowing like pearls in the firelight. Their profiles blended as they embraced, and William's dark head moved lower, to her breast. He touched her as easily as water flowed. William's hand moved down her waist and hip, across her abdomen, and between her legs. Duana gasped.

As FitzWalter watched, William looked up. He told her something in Welsh, and moved down her body to put his mouth between her legs. As he held her legs apart, she gasped again, tilting her head back and grasping at the sheet beneath her. She pleaded but he did not stop. William put his hand to her sex, sliding his fingers in and out of her. Duana panted and whimpered. She arched her back. Her hips rose. William's hand moved lower, and she cried out. William's mouth made wet, greedy sounds, and a warm, insistent sensation grew in FitzWalter's groin.

Duana said something desperately. William raised his head and wiped his hand across his mouth. He responded in a jumble of rapid Welsh and bad French, but FitzWalter understood the word 'conceive.' Duana shook her head. William gestured for her to turn around – to be on her hands and knees in front of him. Duana objected, and FitzWalter heard her say 'sin.' William's response included 'watch' or 'see' – FitzWalter could not remember the Welsh verb. William untied the lace of his brasiers, and after a brief stalemate, Duana acquiesced. He saw William's big prick out, and his hands on Duana's hip and the small of her back. William said what had to be the Welsh equivalent of 'spread your legs.' Duana gasped as the Welshman sank into her with a satisfied sigh. After a few thrusts, William pushed her shoulders down so her cheek rested on the floor. One hand, he kept on her bottom, and the other hand between her shoulder blades, keeping her down as he fucked her from behind. Slow. Each stroke long and deep. Then harder. His hand moved against her bottom - entering her or at least touching her there, as well. She did not resist. Each time, each stroke, though, Duana cried out. The Welshman's head fell back. He grimaced, and his mouth moved in silent rapture.

"He will get her with child again," the old man said quietly. 

FitzWalter startled and looked away. "That is her choice." Guards flanked Duana's apartment door, not forty feet away. She must have told them to let William pass, and she could summon the knights any time. FitzWalter would never have treated her so shamefully. If she allowed William of Aber in her rooms and submitted to this sin and indignity, she got what she deserved. At least, FitzWalter tried to tell himself that. Duana's cries became louder, and FitzWalter's erection became uncomfortable.

"Her daughter resembles King Henry," the old man said. "She told you William killed Eimile's father. The boy may be Llewelyn's, but who would dare have touched your father's wife besides the King?"

FitzWalter had a hand on the stone, ready to push it back in place. "How do you know what Duana told me? Do you imply William killed King John?"

"I imply nothing. Put King Henry and Eimile side-by-side and look at them." 

In the next room, flesh met flesh. Finish, FitzWalter commanded William silently, as he heard Duana cry out. Finish and let her up. Have it done. He wanted to burst through the wall and yank that Welshmen away from her. Take Duana to an actual bed and put his arms around her and show her how a man should love a woman instead of how animals mounted each other.

"This is because of you," the old man promised quietly. "He punishes her for being with you. Lady Duana allowed you in her bed, expecting you would marry her. She should be thankful he wants a son or else that would not be his thumb where God did not intend an entrance."

FitzWalter stared at him as the noises from the bedchamber continued. He heard Duana begging William. 

"You and the Welshman both have dark eyes, dark hair," the old man continued in a seductive whisper. "You are tall, formidable men. Execute him, make her your Christian wife, and everyone will assume the son Lady Duana carries is your seed. Treat her more gently than William of Aber, and in nine months there will be a Pembroke heir. Think of what a son of Lady Duana's with William's brilliance and your power could accomplish. He would rule Europe. He would be the greatest leader since Charlemagne. Since King Arthur."

"I will get my own son," FitzWalter managed to say.

"You will not. You know you will not." The old man nodded toward Duana's apartment, where she still gasped and pleaded. "The Welshmen has taught her tricks to please a man I thought only Cathers and Infidel whores knew. Christian or not, wife or not, she will do what you ask. Whatever you ask."

FitzWalter swallowed.

"I can arrange for you to go to her," the old man offered. "Tonight. Have Lord William called away. I will make a potion to give to Lady Duana in wine, and for you to drink. Go to her and she will think she is coupling with her husband again. You could say in all honesty, you were with her the night your son was conceived." The man paused. "I arranged the same for Uther Pendragon. Even once for Henry Plantagenet to go to your own lovely mother, before she wed your father. Droit du seigneur," the old man said, and as if FitzWalter did not speak Latin, "The lord's right to first night. Your mother was young, your father a powerful man. She thought Henry Plantagenet was your father unable to wait a night."

"No," FitzWalter managed. This was nonsense. No such potion existed. FitzWalter was his father's son. Father's only son, and nearly a mirror image of him. FitzWalter's mother had been a great heiress, a great beauty, and Father's great love. If any other man touched her, Father would have murdered him – even the King.

FitzWalter was born nine months after his parents married. His mother died days after his birth. Henry Plantagenet died a month later. 

"William killed the King John," the old man hissed seductively. "The Welshman must die; that is not in question. The question is: what becomes of Lady Duana and the son she conceives tonight? A son she will not live to see take his first breath. She has told you that."

"No," FitzWalter said, though Duana told him exactly that.

"If she forfeits her life for a son, let it be your son. Tonight, FitzWalter. Go to her. Love her as she deserves to be loved. I can arrange it within the hour."

FitzWalter exhaled, pushed the loose stone back into place, and repeated, "No." He would question Lord William about King John, William would deny it, and that would be all. Unless she sought his help, FitzWalter would not meddle in Duana's affairs again. Or in witchcraft. He would see this stone fixed and the crazy old man escorted from Court.

Even though the stone wall, he heard William cry out, as if pleading in both pain and pleasure. Again. And again. So loudly the Welsh guards outside Duana's apartment chuckled, and the royal guards cursed at them.

"Think of it," the mysterious hooded man suggested. "What it must be like to touch that woman. Tomorrow, he takes her to Wales and you will never see her alive again. There is only tonight."

"Tonight, the only thing I think is you are insane, old man," FitzWalter responded, and turned away.

*~*~*~*

Duana shared a cup of water she brought from the bedchamber a moment earlier. The fire in the hearth burned down to glowing coals. Gwilym did not move to add more wood. He had pulled up his brasiers; tying them was too much trouble. He lay beside Duana on the sitting room floor with the huge, rumpled sheet beneath them and wrapped around the two of them like a cocoon. Duana lay beside him, still nude, also looking up at the ceiling. On the far wall, three arrows still lodged in the post, and the crossbow lay on the hearth.

"I think sometimes you must have practiced at lovemaking while we were apart," she said lazily. 

"After months apart from you, since I am bound for Hell anyway, I practice on myself sometimes," Gwilym confessed. He folded his arm behind his head. "Aside from that, Cariad: I have not. Not of my own volition. At no time in our marriage within my memory – which is faulty, I know. As far as I recall, I save myself for you and Prince Llewelyn."

Duana laughed, still sounding tipsy. Across the room, their reflection in the new mirror looked contented. She shifted and asked, "Why does it matter if I see you sin?"

"It does. I do not want you watching me do that."

"You watched me fellate you earlier. You lit lamps and bid me undress and keep my hair back."

"This is different. And-" He changed the subject. "-your Latin skills continue to improve, as well."

He did not ask if she had been practicing at lovemaking in his absence. 

"Is it unpleasant?"

"It is not," he assured her. "Coitus interruptus is not the same, but not unpleasant. I have to pay attention and remember to do it." Duana did not have to voice her thoughts; Gwilym knew. "I want to please you," he reminded her. "You wanted me inside you, and I do not want another baby. This seems the best route."

"That is not what the Greeks say," she mumbled.

Gwilym chuckled. "You are a drunken and wanton witch."

"I am wanton? You, dear husband, wandered quite far to the south tonight. Did your tongue and fingers merely lose their way?"

"I heard no complaints." He paused. "I worry I would hurt you, doing that. Besides, I still feel like a sodomite if I let you pleasure me with your mouth."

"Which I was willing to do again," Duana reminded him.

Gwilym did not answer. He felt warm and limp and lazy – if sticky – and he would not have this discussion again. Instead, he asked, "Do you leave with Llewelyn and me in the morning?"

"FitzWalter has not said I cannot."

"Ah – Llewelyn's logic: if it is not specifically disallowed it is allowed." He reached over to toy with her braid and stroke her warm face. "Llewelyn says Mab may live in Aber with us. He is my sole heir, and also Llewelyn's heir presumptive. Many Welsh noblemen have an interest in Mab never reaching manhood. Aber Castle is safer for him than Welsh Court."

Duana nodded. A few breaths later, she told him in a manner he recognized as calculated to sound casual, "I am well. Once we are home, how long, do you think, do you want Mab as your sole heir?"

Gwilym turned his head to look at her. "This Cariad, and your historic dishonesty if you believe a lie to my benefit, is why I cannot rely on your word on whether you can conceive." Her brow furrowed unhappily. He smoothed it with his fingertip as if he could smooth away all worries and woes. "Tomorrow morning, you and I and Eimile will ride for Aber. You will see your son again by All Souls' Day. Once we are home, we can curl up like kittens and sleep for days. If you like, we can spend the winter acquainting ourselves with carnal sins even the Romans and Greeks lack words for. In the spring, we may talk about another son."

"We can sleep in our bed, read our books," Duana said, luxuriating in the idea as if it was a hot bath. "Play with the children. Play chess. In the spring, you will leave to win FitzWalter's wars, and you will return to me before winter."

"So long as I draw breath and you wish it," Gwilym promised. "That is my plan."

Duana took his hand and closed her eyes. The dying fire glowed against her skin. Across the room, Gwilym noticed his reflection watching him from the looking glass. The man in the new mirror silently shook his head. Gwilym nodded he understood. He had hoped the man in the looking glass gone – but that did not appear the case. This story would not have a pleasant diwedd, an end. Still, it was a nice dream for the remainder of the night.

*~*~*~*

The same two royal knights and two Welsh knights guarded Duana's apartment door as Gwilym left before dawn. The Welsh brothers' cloaks covered Duana's maid, who lay sleeping on the floor. Beside her, FitzWalter also waited in the shadowy hallway, fully dressed, armored, and wearing a sword. 

Gwilym stopped. Behind him, he heard Duana bolt the door. Her footsteps faded and the bed chamber door closed. For Gwilym, morning had arrived; Duana would sleep another hour before readying herself and Eimile to leave.

"Put down the sack," FitzWalter ordered quietly. "Let me at least pretend I do not see you flouting the King's law."

Gwilym lowered the rough bag containing the crossbow to the floor.

"I discovered a man lurking outside Duana's rooms earlier tonight. I have dealt with him," the Kingmaker said.

Though that news did not seem worth FitzWalter standing sentry along with the guards, Gwilym nodded. "A doctor?"

"No." FitzWalter stepped closer. He inhaled and frowned; Gwilym had wiped off, but not yet washed. "Duana has never done anything to dishonor you. If you have a quarrel, it is with me." 

"I have no quarrel with my wife," Gwilym answered cautiously, as he tried to look ahead in this maze to see where the trap might lie. 

"And with me?" FitzWalter nodded toward Duana's door. "You abandoned her. I planned to marry her, and Duana thought her marriage to you annulled. I thought the marriage annulled."

Gwilym waited. Duana's Irish maid opened her eyes, looked up, and scrambled to her feet.

"I did not force her," FitzWalter said. "Duana said you hung Alex. I do not wish a similar fate."

Gwilym nodded again. He kept his face expressionless but tucked that epiphany away to ruminate on later. 

"And Eimile's father?"

"Eimile is my daughter," Gwilym responded.

"As Dafydd ap Llewelyn is your son: they are children born to your legal wife. I can count nine months and I do not need a lesson in Welsh inheritance laws, William."

Gwilym clenched his jaw. "What is your business?" 

"Would you kill me if I had forced Duana? Not merely shared her bed?"

As much as he wanted to reach for his sword, Gwilym remained still and said, "What do you think?"

"I think, yes. I think you are a brilliant killer and, Kingmaker or not, I would be a dead man - as would any man who harmed her. That is the reason I am allowing Duana to leave London with you. Swear to me you will keep her safe and treat her kindly. She will not be sent to Llewelyn's bed or led into witchcraft or sin again. Or-" FitzWalter nudged the sack with the toe of his boot. "This illegal foolishness. If I cannot be her husband, promise me you will be good to her."

Gwilym nodded.

"Swear to me you never harmed King John. Swear my father sired a blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl a month after he died. Or Prince Llewelyn claimed the right to the first night with your wife and either Duana willingly dishonored her marriage vows or Llewelyn forced her, yet you let him live. Swear it."

Gwilym opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"Swear it, and I will let you pass," the Kingmaker promised. "I will let you take Eimile and Duana, and return to those Godforsaken Welsh mountains."

"I swear I have never raised my sword against my king," Gwilym promised.

FitzWalter looked as if he thought he misheard. "The old King did not die by a sword, William," he said slowly. 

"He did not. But you - from the moment you admitted to me you have shared her bed - never had any intention of letting my wife leave London with me." 

The Kingmaker stared at him. Then, FitzWalter nodded to the royal knights. They stepped forward. Duana's maid scrambled away, pressing back against the stone wall. Gwilym raised his hand to signal his own knights not to interfere. He let FitzWalter's men take his sword.

"See it goes to Mab," Gwilym requested.

*~*~*~*

A hand shook Llewelyn's shoulder insistently, jarring him from sleep. "What?" he muttered in French. Joanna thought it a crisis each time one of their daughters sneezed. Gruffydd was the eldest of Llewelyn's seven children - nine children, if he counted Gwil's two little ones - and Rhys and Angharad, the twins, the youngest at King Henry's age. Of his own volition, Llewelyn would not lose sleep over a case of sniffles. "Come to bed, Briela," he mumbled, and pulled her toward him lazily. "Demonstrate your affection for your lord husband."

He expected the bed to shift as Joanna joined him, but instead a woman's voice pleaded in Welsh, "Wake up, my lord," and continued to shake him.

Tang – he saw his lovely Tangwystl in the darkness. Llewelyn sighed and went back to sleep, knowing he dreamed.

"It is Lady Duana. Please wake up, my lord."

"Duana?" He opened his eyes and let go of her hand. "Is it time to leave London?"

"FitzWalter arrested William." Duana pulled him up to sitting and offered his breeches. Behind her, one of Gwilym's knights held a torch high, casting long shadows across the bed. Gwil's armor remained beside the hearth and a towel he used earlier hung on a nail. 

Llewelyn stared at his bare legs, his breeches, and at Gwilym's wife. He saw Gwil six hours ago. They had bathed and shaved, and Gwilym talked Llewelyn out of yet another new shirt. Gwilym had not said where he intended to pass the night, but he took a bottle of wine and the damn crossbow with him as he left. 

Duana stood in the little bedchamber wearing her robe and slippers, with her hair braided but uncovered. The Prince of Wales ran his tongue over his teeth, swallowed, and asked, "Why are you here? Does Gwil know you are here?"

"I told you. Fitz arrested William," she answered as Llewelyn continued to stare at her. 

"FitzWalter arrested Gwilym?" He squinted at her. "And you are here? Why do you have my breeches? We leave for home in the morning." 

"Fitz found the crossbow and he will not believe it is mine, not William's." Duana had Llewelyn raise his arms. She pulled his shirt down over his head efficiently. "William is in the Tower, and FitzWalter will not see me. You must talk to him."

"Talk to whom?" Llewelyn waved Duana away as she started to help him with his breeches. Servants often dressed him, but so early in the morning and when his friend's wife smelled of lovemaking- Llewelyn could manage his own breeches. "Talk to whom? FitzWalter or Gwil?"

"Talk to FitzWalter. Fitz has arrested William." Duana held out his boots. 

On the floor at the foot of the bed, Llewelyn's squire sat up and scratched the back of his head. Other men and boys roused as well, appraised the situation and, recognizing Lord Gwilym's wife beside Prince Llewelyn's bed, feigned sleep through half-closed eyelids.

If his enemies wanted to assassinate Llewelyn, they could give a pretty woman a knife and a map to his bed. The battle-hardened knights sworn to protect Llewelyn with their lives would let her walk right in, so long as they could watch or listen.

"All right. All right." Llewelyn stood and turned away as he tightened the laces on his breeches. He had to piss, which he could not do in front of Lady Duana. 

"Put your boots on. I have your sword and tunic," Duana ordered, forgetting she addressed the Prince of Wales. "Hurry up."

"I am hurrying," Llewelyn promised. He hopped on one foot as he jerked on his other boot. "Duana, what am I to tell FitzWalter?"

"The crossbow is mine."

He nodded, getting his facts straight. "I am to tell FitzWalter the crossbow is yours. Where is FitzWalter?"

"In the Tower with Gwilym! Jesus!" Duana said in exasperation.

*~*~*~*

Llewelyn followed the royal knights, not down into the dungeon, but high into the Tower. To a closed wooden door flanked by more guards, with broad blank barring it from the outside.

Inside, Gwilym sat on a stool beside a narrow window looking down at the river. He glanced at Llewelyn but resumed watching The Thames. The chamber was warm, with a wide canopied bed, a table, even a sofa in the Roman style. A tray held bread and wine, and the hearth held a fire. Outside, a cold rain fell on London, so icy it felt like snow. 

"Have you come for a farewell kiss?" Gwilym asked sarcastically.

"I want my shirt back before FitzWalter beheads you. Why must your crises be in the middle of the night? You are worse than my wife. Marshal FitzWalter says you have broken the King's law and are being held for trial by jury," Llewelyn told him irritably. "He says 'treason.' A crossbow is illegal, but I do not see how it is treason. Your wife is nearly out of her mind with worry. What have you done, Gwil?"

"You do not want a kiss? I am taller and hairier than ‘Briela,’ but you could close your eyes and pretend." Gwilym pursed his lips at him. "We should not deny ourselves, Llewel – especially now: you about to be a grandpa and me about to die. The guards will not mind." In a loud voice, Gwilym called in French, "The big blond knight fancies me, too."

From the other side of the door, a presumably tall blond knight barked, "I look forward to cutting off your little cock, you poxy Welsh bastard!"

Gwilym nodded confidently. "He fancies me." 

Llewelyn exhaled tiredly. 

"The Crown owns every swan in The Thames," Gwilym said, looking out the window again. "Did you know that, Llewel? It is the King's law." He paused, seeming deep in thought. "How does one own a swan? A pig, a horse, or a chicken- Those can be owned. In England, a man owns his wife. You owning every deer in your forest - even that I can understand. But claiming to own wild swans in a river? Is that not the height of vanity?"

"Clearly you cannot understand; you have poached deer from my forest for decades. What of the crossbow, Gwil?" Llewelyn prompted. "Have you killed one of the King's swans with it?"

Gwilym stood, crossed to the ornate bed, and lay back onto the mattress. "If a man raped my wife – even my liege lord – I can demand justice. That is the law. The penalty for forcing a noblewoman is death."

"It is," Llewelyn agreed. "But I have never forced Duana. Or any woman. Or am I supposed to say I have? Jesus your schemes are complicated. And what of the crossbow?"

"But a woman cannot testify to rape." Gwilym continued as if the Prince had not spoken. "Without a male witness, who can saw she was forced and not seduced? Where is the boundary between the two? A bruise? A struggle? How much should my serving girl resist if I ask her to my bed? She does not want me, but I am not going to hurt her. What about a hungry whore who wants my money? A young wife whose father chose her husband? We call those instances sport and a woman's duty and a lord's right but, by definition, a lack of choice is force. I do not ask a mare if she wants bred; I expect her to cooperate because I own her - as I own Duana."

Llewelyn stared at him, lacking sleep and breakfast and good humor. "The damn crossbow, Gwil," he repeated. "What of the crossbow? Speak, before I leave you to your odd notions, take your pretty wife and daughter, and ride for Wales."

Gwilym rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand. "That is exactly what I want you to do. FitzWalter wants me to confess to killing King John."

"He clutches at straw. You were in Ireland with Duana and the Templars when the old King died." 

Gwilym remained on the bed, his face expressionless. Llewelyn had been standing near the door with his hands on his hips. After several seconds of silence, he went to the bed and sat down at the foot, facing Gwilym. "You were in Ireland with Duana, were you not?" the Prince asked quietly.

After an eternity, Gwilym answered, "I tried, Llewel. I told myself it was King John's right. I even told Duana it was his right. I did try, but some things, I cannot make myself believe. He did not claim a right; he murdered an innocent old nobleman, and raped and beat a pretty woman who had scorned him. Who did not know her legs should fall apart because John's ass sat on a purple cushion. He hung my Dafydd and wanted my wife's child back to use as a pawn?" Gwilym shook his head. "I cannot accept that as God’s will."

Llewelyn blinked. King John was a short-sighted, cruel, mercurial bastard, but he had been Llewelyn's father-in-law. The King of England, for God's sake. God, the Pope, the King of England, and the Prince of Wales: that was the order of the world. 

"Take Duana and Eimile, and go home," Gwilym instructed calmly. "Take care of them. Take care of Mab. Raise him to be a good man, a good prince. Raise him to have a place in this world, because I do not. Oh-" he said as if remembering. "Do not be surprised if Druids visit your dreams. Do as they ask with Mab; they mean him no harm. Those tales of Old Ones and bonfires and a lunar eclipse at his birth: all true. Raise Dafydd ap Llewelyn as your son, but realize he belongs to something you can barely fathom."

A cold chill settled over Llewelyn – colder even than the rain and wind outside. He thought of the trial by jury. A Norman jury. Gwilym, with his broken French and arrogant attitude, would be found guilty of treason as soon as he opened his mouth, and sentenced to the slowest, cruelest death the jury could devise.

"Ask for an ordeal," Llewelyn urged. "Perhaps God will judge you differently than men."

Gwilym's head barely moved 'no.' "Get Duana and Eimile out of England, and I will confess. Do not forget: a soon as Duana is widowed, she is a target. If she does not choose a new husband, mind you keep her safe. And if-" He paused. "If Duana would choose you and you her? I would not haunt you, Llewel. Not so long as you treat Duana well."

Llewelyn shook his head, refusing to believe Gwilym did not have some brilliant plan. "I am the Prince of Wales. I will lie. Tell me what to say and I will say it."

"Say you will take care of Duana and my children."

*~*~*~*

"The eighteenth day of October, 1216. Nottinghamshire. Newark Castle," FitzWalter reminded Lord William. William sat at the carved table in his high prison room. FitzWalter circle the table slowly with his hands behind his back. "King John was ill, and his men abandoned him there. The next morning his manservant found King John dead in his bed. Tell me what happened," FitzWalter requested. "Think carefully this time." 

The scribe sat opposite William. As the hours passed, servants had brought platters of food and pitchers of wine for the nobleman, but the scribe was expected to live off his hump like the beasts in the Holy Land. 

William nodded. He picked up his wine goblet and contemplated it, constructing deep, confession-like thoughts. FitzWalter stopped circling. The scribe picked up a quill again. After a moment of effort, William said, "It was a Thursday. Cold. Rainy. I wore gray. I had eggs for breakfast."

"Damn it!" FitzWalter slammed his fist down on the table. The scribe jumped. Red wine and black ink spilled and spattered like blood across the table. "Answer the question." 

"I do think it a Thursday. I have a good memory for these things."

"I will jog your memory with a lashing! How did King John die? Did you kill him?"

"What do you want, FitzWalter?" William spoke softly but as quickly as his command of French allowed. "I confess. I boiled him in oil. I drowned him in brandy-wine. I smothered him in kisses. Why does it matter? A life for a life: let Duana and Eimile leave England and I will confess to whatever you want." 

"You are in no position to make deals, Welshman." 

"Make Duana leave with Llewelyn." William continued as if the Kingmaker had not spoken. "She will not go willingly, but Llewelyn will not harm her, either. Let Duana remarry as she pleases, if she pleases, and let her have say over Eimile and Mab. Grant her rights to my land with Llewelyn speaking for her in court, if need be."

"Duana cannot travel. She is with child."

"She is not." One corner of William's mouth rose, seeming amused. "FitzWalter, has no one told you? You do not get to both eat your cake and have your cake."

"Did you kill King John?" Fitz asked tensely.

"You care for Duana. Your pride is bruised, but you do. Send her to Wales with Llewelyn. Let her grieve. In summer, send a message asking if she wants to return to London. And to you. I wager..." William paused. "I wager she will return before next winter. For now, let her go. You can wait a year. Keep her here now though, and she will hate you forever."

"Did you kill King John?" 

William tilted his chair precariously backward. "Have Duana send me a message in her own hand once she reaches Wales, and I will confess to killing King John."

"But did you kill the old King? Or do you think you buy Duana's freedom by confessing? I have no desire to execute an innocent man."

"I have no desire to be executed, but I know who I am and to whom I belong. I am content to die knowing that and knowing souls mate eternally. Nothing you do can take Duana from me nor me from Duana. I hope you live long enough to understand, but for now you remain a boy who believes he can own swans, Marshal FitzWalter."

Fitz threw his hands up. "Christ, William. Answer the damn question!"

"The answer does not matter. I am a dead man."

"It is beginning to look that way."

Gwilym smirked and resumed staring out the window.

*~*~*~*

FitzWalter possessed more guile than Gwilym anticipated. The Kingmaker kept Gwilym in a plush cage in the Tower. The guards allowed no more visitors but brought plenty of food and firewood and wine. Books and ink and parchment even, though Gwilym was forbidden from sending letters. FitzWalter did not question Gwilym again or order him tortured. The Kingmaker let Gwilym watch from the high window as autumn folded into an early, harsh winter. Trees shed their leaves, and ice began to form along the banks of the Thames. 

Each night Gwilym dreamed of Duana's dead eyes watching him from beneath a layer of ice. Her hair, cut as short as a common soldier's, floated like blood around her bruised face. She reached for him with hands lacking fingers. As the days passed, the dreams began to come if he napped during the day. Then, Gwilym began seeing the awful images with his eyes open.

According to the guards, Duana and Eimile remained in London. Prince Llewelyn remained with them. 

All Hallow's Eve passed. Each time Gwilym opened the shutters, ice crept farther into the river and the wind grew more frigid. November brought snow. Not a pretty dusting, but storms leaving London blanketed in white. Gwilym could no longer tell where the banks of The Thames ended and the ice began. He watched adventurous boys venture out on the ice.

A man on horseback could still reach northern Wales; soon, a small child could not. Eimile would have to remain in London until spring, and Duana would not leave her, even once Gwilym was dead. A message from Llewelyn smuggled in by a guard asked what the Prince should do. Go home, Gwilym wrote back. Find the demon posing as a doctor before the doctor found Duana, and take Duana and Eimile home.

Gwilym wrote a convincing confession and sent it to FitzWalter. No executioner came, so Gwilym wrote another, adding many treasonous and heretical details. By December, Gwilym's confession admitted his plot to rape and murder all Plantagenet kings, rule England himself, and appoint a she-Devil as his royal consort. Christmas approached; still no executioner came.

The first time Gwilym noticed a red light flickering out of the corner of his eye, he thought nothing of it. The second time, he assumed he descended, yet again, into madness. The third time Gwilym saw it, he rose from bed, pulled on his shirt and breeches and boots, and followed the dancing little light.

In the darkness, the red light skittered across the floor, up a stone wall, and flickered against the door latch. The door would be barred from the outside, with a guard posted on either side. Had he wanted, long ago, Gwilym could have ambushed the guards as a servant brought in a meal. He could have escaped – escaped the frozen castle and the frozen city, even, but he saw no point. His escape neither freed nor protected Duana, and Gwilym had no place to escape to, regardless.

Like a moth around a candle, the red light flitted insistently over the latch. Gwilym was not the first royal prisoner kept in this room. Carved names, initials, and chiseled messages decorated the old wooden door and the stones around it. French, Latin, Spanish, Italian, the Gaelic languages, Anglo-Saxon runes, even. Gwilym had added his initials to the graffiti on the door along with, in Irish, 'ciúnas gan uaigneas.'

He watched the red light. Despite the foolishness of the act, he reached for the latch. The stout door opened easily. The hinges didn't squeal nor did the wood scrape against the floor. If Gwilym held his breath, there was no sound except the storm outside. The torches on the wall had burned out. The dark hallway looked deserted. 

Gwilym glanced back at his room, but moved silently down the twisting stone stairs. He passed no guards, no servants. Candles burned at the alter, but he found no priest in the chapel. The chapel's heavy outer door stood ajar. Moonlight and snowflakes slipped in, and the little red fairy light flitted against the latch.

Outside, unblemished snow blanketed the courtyard and mounded against the castle walls. Gwilym stepped over the threshold. His boot crunched through a layer of ice atop the snow and sank in to his knee. He saw no lights in the windows, and still heard no noises - not even from outside the castle. He seemed the one person alive in London. The one creature alive in the whole frozen world.

In the moonlight, the castle's front gate stood raised and unguarded. 

Gwilym started toward Duana's apartment but the fairy light danced the other way, across the moonlit snowdrifts and to the sharp metal points of the open portcullis. Icicles hung from the metal tips like drool from a hungry giant's teeth.

He ignored the red light and continued toward the royal apartments. He could get Duana, fetch Eimile, and they could escape. Where they would go, he had no idea.

The light skittered back to Gwilym, encircled him a few times, and flitted across the snow to the center of the courtyard. The topmost part of the executioner's block remained above the snow, and a white line decorated the upper edge of the ax and ax handle.

If he dreamed of the future, beheading as a traitor was far more pleasant than burning as a heretic. Not as pleasant as returning home with his wife and daughter, to his son, to rule his lands and tease Llewelyn about his little pagan grandson, but a marked improvement as deaths went.

Gwilym could not see the windows of Duana's apartment, but the windows of FitzWalter's and Henry's rooms were dark. The windows of the great hall: dark. The stables and mews: dark and silent. Silence covered the world, and he was the only inhabitant.

He wondered if he should go to the executioner's block and accept his fate. As he stepped in that direction, though, the red light darted insistently to the castle's gaping front gate.

Gwilym exhaled and followed the light – out of the castle and, with fewer steps than he anticipated – to the bank of the frozen river. He felt snow blowing against his face but looked down to discover he wore a heavy fur cloak. Not merely a warm fur cloak. He wore an ermine mantle fit for a king. Fur topped his boots and trimmed his tunic, as well.

A tall man in a long brown robe seemed to step from the snow and appear beside Gwilym. A hood shadowed his face. He had his hands tucked in the opening of the opposite sleeve.

"Leuan," Gwilym said. "Am I dreaming or have you returned?"

"Correct," Father Leuan's familiar voice answered in Welsh. "It seems you did not heed my counsel, Llwynog. What did I tell you about baiting dragons?"

"Truly, I do not try to court trouble, Leuan," Gwilym insisted. "Yet my life seems as if I stand beneath the Devil's window and recite poetry."

The frigid wind made Gwilym's mantle whip around him and stole his words away in white wisps. Leuan's simple brown robe did not move.

"I did defy a king," Gwilym admitted. "But a Norman king. I did take my wife and my son among the Druids. I did deflower a young girl. Steal a tunic, and aid in kidnapping and murdering the royal seneschal. Twice I visited a Scottish demon woman – but to find Duana. I am guilty of several carnal sins I hope you, as a married man, are acquainted. And I won a crossbow playing dice, but that is all, Leuan," he said earnestly. "Although at my next opportunity, I will kill the Norman doctor and perhaps the Regent of England. But I will do it painlessly and with just cause each time."

The figure shook his head from side to side. Gwilym saw a hint of a smile beneath the dark hood. "My Llwynog has no taste for young girls," Father Leuan said. "At your next opportunity, return to Chester and speak with this girl. Ask her if she can read and write."

Gwilym furrowed his brow. The last thing he wanted was to see Duana harmed, but the second-to-last? Facing that girl. "Why would I ask that?"

"Because you may find more than absolution."

"Fine. As soon as Marshal FitzWalter allows me, I will pick up my severed head, mount my horse, and ride for Chester," Gwilym said sarcastically. He exhaled a frozen white cloud. "I have absolution from the woman who matters most, and faith I will meet her again in another life. And now, through whatever Old Magic this is, I see you: my friend who has never failed me nor really left me. I am finished, Leuan. So long as Duana and Eimile are safe, I can put my head on that block-" Gwilym nodded at the dark, silent castle behind them. "And meet the Devil tonight."

"Oh, we cannot allow that, Llwynog. You have a son to raise." The hooded head nodded at a dark figure on the opposite bank. Gwilym had not noticed him earlier. As he looked, the figure became clearer, as if the snow cleared, until Gwilym saw an old man with a deeply lined face and hard, cold eyes. "Do you see him?"

Gwilym nodded. The figure did not move.

"Spendan is the closest thing to the Devil you will ever meet. Remember him and remember what the Infidels say: the enemy of my enemy is momentarily my friend."

Gwilym nodded again. The blowing snow returned, obscuring the dark figure.

"Look down," Leuan requested next.

Out of boyhood habit, Gwilym obediently looked down. He stood, not on the riverbank, but far out on the ice. He waited for cracks to begin beneath his boots. Miraculously, the ice held. Nearby, at the center of the river, a few yards of water remained liquid.

The bitter wind scoured a patch of snow from the frozen river. His nightmare had returned. Beneath the ice he saw Duana's bruised face. Her cropped hair swirled in the water. Her dead eyes stared up at him. He saw her bare shoulders and, in the murky depths, her breasts. A small hand lacking fingers pressed against the ice, seeking help. Her blue lips remained parted in a silent scream.

Frantic, he brushing away the last flakes of snow to see clearly. Duana's eyes looked through the ice. He struck the surface of the frozen river with his hand. It did not crack. Gwilym inched toward the center of the river. He lay at the edge of the ice and plunged one arm into the frigid water beneath it, trying to reach her. He could not; his fingers missed by several feet. The executioner's ax. He would fetch it from the castle and hack thorough the ice. He would get to her. He always did. This nightmare ended with Gwilym on the ice, shivering and alone in the midst of a vast white nothing, holding the naked corpse of a woman he could not save. 

As his throat closed off, Gwilym looked up at Leuan. "Do not allow this to happen."

"This has happened, Llwynog. Sadly, she is dead. Boys will walk across The Thames tomorrow night and find her body beneath the ice."

"Why are you showing me?"

"For her it is too late. Regardless of what you do, in three days, boys will find this body," Leuan said. "They will cut it from the ice and bring it to Marshal FitzWalter."

Gwilym's chest contracted painfully and the blowing snow stung his eyes.

"Look closely, Llwynog," the priest commanded. 

The fairy light reappeared, darting across the ice, beneath the water and settling into a thin red line high on her forehead. 

The scar. Gwilym blinked so he saw clearly. The scar high on Duana's forehead: this body did not have it. 

"It is not Duana?"

"Tomorrow, Lady Duana will accompany FitzWalter to Temple Church. Do you recall the circular nave has a side door beyond the effigies?"

Gwilym backed away from the edge of the ice and stiffly got to his feet. He tucked his wet arm inside his cloak, trying to lessen the ache from the cold. "I do."

"Do you recall a true friend does whatever is necessary, when it is necessary?"

"This is Duana's life, Leuan, not a test of my Latin and riddle-solving skills. How do I save her? What am I to do?" Gwilym demanded in desperate puffs of frozen breath.

"Have faith," the priest counseled. "Trade a life for a life, as you promised."

The wind shifted. A gust blew snow into Gwilym's eyes, stinging like sand. He squinted and blinked. Leuan vanished, taking the frozen Thames and the snow-covered riverbank with him. In an instant, Gwilym occupied his high room in The Tower again. His usual shirt (Llewelyn's shirt, actually) and tunic replaced the rich ermine cloak. Gwilym sat in a comfortable chair at the warm hearth with a book of gospels still open on his lap. The fire crackled and the door remained closed. His latest confession remained on the table, unfinished. Outside the room, Gwilym heard the guards discussing something in French, and outside the window, the snowstorm continued.

He pushed himself higher in the chair and rubbed his eyes. The hand he drew across his face felt frozen and his sleeve still wet. He looked down to see snow melting from his boots.

The red fairy light flitted around the room as if seeking escape. It darted to the door, encircling Gwilym's carving of 'ciúnas' in the wood. Silence. The light darted to his lap, skittering across Mark's gospel to 'blessed are they that mourn.' The fairy light drifted to a candle burning low on the table, blended with the yellow flame, and like Leuan, vanished as quietly and mysteriously as it arrived. 

*~*~*~*

Winter rattled the shutters and pressed through the stone walls. A skin of ice formed in a basin near the window. Duana sat near the fire. She held a cup of wine that, at least upon leaving the kitchens, was warm. She kept a blanket wrapped around her, over William's old robe. She had sent the maids away and Eimile off to bed with her nurse. Silence covered London along with the night and the snow.

Duana hugged her knees against her chest, sat on the sofa, and did nothing. Outside the apartment, armor clinked as the Welsh and royal knights shifted. Inside, the fire crackled and a draft made candles flicker. Three arrows still protruded from a wooden beam; she would not let the servants remove them.

At first, in the fall, Prince Llewelyn came. In the first month Fitz kept William locked in The Tower, Llewelyn often appeared at Duana's apartment door. FitzWalter no longer let Llewelyn see William, but Llewelyn brought news from bribed servants and guards. Other nights, Llewelyn brought Eimile. He would watch Eimile play or sleep, or he might sit and silently stare into the fire. He spoke of his own children and Mab and a coming grandchild, but never of his wife. Yet Llewelyn never said or did anything improper. He seemed seeking company, and, beneath his stoic exterior, frightened and lost. Some nights, lingering late, Llewelyn spoke to Duana of William: of their boyhood together, of their wars and friendship, and once a story involving the two of them as young men, a great deal of ale, and an adventurous prostitute. Duana could have lived her life in happy ignorance of that last story. 

By December, FitzWalter's knights no longer let Llewelyn pass, even during the day. Llewelyn sent secret messages through Duana's maid. Always the same message. William said to take Eimile and leave London with Llewelyn. Leave William in The Tower to die.

Sometimes Duana bundled up and walked outside to look at The Tower. Fitz still allowed that. She looked up at the highest window and felt certain William looked back. Tonight, she could have not seen six feet through the snowstorm, but she felt William's arms around her. 

The knock at the door startled Duana. She stood. The servant announced FitzWalter, and her chest tightened.

"Is he dead?" Duana asked before Fitz had crossed the threshold.

"No." 

"Why have you come?" For months, Fitz refused Duana an audience, and he had been absent from Court for weeks. Whatever the reason for his change of heart, forbidding him entrance would guarantee the death of the two Welsh knights outside her apartment. "What do you want?"

Fitz wore a red cloak lined and trimmed with fur. Snow still clung to his riding boots, and flakes lingered on his beard and hair. His cheeks had the flushed look of cold flesh beginning to thaw.

At FitzWalter's command, the servants closed the apartment door, leaving Duana and Fitz alone. Duana looked down and noticed she still held a cup of wine. She set it aside and pulled the bedrobe tightly closed.

"Are you well?" he asked cordially. He stood a polite distance away on the rug. "The messages I received said you are well."

"I want to see William."

"William is not my concern," Fitz said. "How is your child?"

"Eimile would like to see William, as well," Duana responded tersely. "You have no right to keep us caged here."

"The child you carry now," FitzWalter clarified neutrally. "Is he well?"

She blinked. "I am not with child."

FitzWalter glanced at the apartment door. "Duana, tell me of 'mealladh na minnseach.'" He struggled with the Irish-Gaelic. "Does it truly exist?"

"Fitz, I am not with child." 

As if she had not spoken, he prompted, "Mealladh na minnseach: Donaes de Pasquier says you once asked for it. An herb for changing a man's shape. An herb used by witches. Does it truly exist?"

"I have heard it spoken of. I had fallen from my horse. I was out of my head. I do not remember. Fitz-"

"When King John came to you-" FitzWalter's throat convulsed. "When he claimed the King's right to first night– He appeared as King John? Not Father? Or me, even? Or some other man you might trust?"

Duana hesitated.

"I found the entry in the old leger, Duana. A month before King John's death, he sent knights to Wales to bring you back to London. John wanted the unborn child you carried. His child. Not Llewelyn's." In the same neutral voice, Fitz assured her, "You know I would never hurt you, and I do not wish to upset you, especially now, but I have no patience for games tonight. Answer me truthfully, Duana, or I will begin having any parts not necessary for a trial cut from William's body."

Duana swallowed. "He appeared as King John. He came to my room, and I could not stop him. King John said he would send William a wedding gift, which he did by holding me down and beating me senseless. I bit him, Fitz. I confess my guilt, in case my treason earns me a cell beside William. I bit the King, and I struck and kicked him, though I doubt his bruises rivaled the marks he left on me for William to find." 

Fitz nodded silently, as he had months ago when she told him the child she miscarried was a son.

"Fitz, your father-" She paused to steady her voice. "Walter died because he would not give me to the King. What William did, he did to protect Eimile and me. I let William love me and he promised to protect us. He will protect us, Fitz. William will burn or hang or whatever death you devise. If you love me as William loves me – and I believe you do – how can you not understand?"

Some pattern in the rug held FitzWalter's attention.

"I will get William to agree to the annulment," she promised recklessly. "I will marry you, Fitz. If you want a son, I will bear one. A son you can call your own. I will be your wife in body and name, and I will love you out of gratitude for sparing William's life. Because you are my Noble Fitz who does what is right and not what is law. But I need William alive. I cannot face a lifetime knowing another man died because of me."

Her offer hinged on convincing William to be prudent enough to agree to the annulment yet rash enough to secretly get her with child again. Either feat rivaled the parting of the Red Sea.

Fitz did not seem to hear her. "Have you seen a man shift his shape? Can the Druids manage it? Is it something Father spoke of?"

"No." She exhaled. "Your father never spoke of it nor have I seen it done."

Fitz pushed the blanket aside and sat on the sofa as if he might spring to his feet again at any moment. Duana remained standing. She adjusted her robe again.

"What did Father tell you of my mother?" His demeanor remained calm, solicitous. Politely, distantly frightening. The snow on his boots began to melt.

"Very little, and likely the same as he told you. Her dowry was substantial, but Walter was King Henry's Marshal and wealthy in his own right. He spoke of your mother's beauty and her spirit. He told me he loved her, and she gave birth to you, and she died of fever. She was eighteen, he said."

"King Henry Plantagenet died a month after my birth." Fitz leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together. He studied the rug again. "I think Father killed him."

"Henry Plantagenet died in his bed, of bleeding," she informed him.

"As King John supposedly died in his bed, of bleeding? King John forced you, and William killed him. I think King Henry used mealladh na minnseach and came to my mother. She told Father, and once the child was born- Once I was born and Mother died, Father killed the King."

Duana stared at him, open-mouthed. "Who put this idea into your head? That doctor? You are Walter's son. The image of him. There is a reason we call you 'Fitz,' Fitz."

"I am Father's son." He looked up at her. "That is the cruelest joke. Kingmaker. Regent. The Count of Pembroke, yet I cannot kill whom I please or marry as I please. All this power and wealth, all these feuds and knights, but I cannot sire a son to inherit any of it. I rule England, yet who sits on the throne?"

"The rightful king," Duana said. 

"According to whom? What right had William the Conquer except being a nobleman with the power to conquer England? I have the same power: armies, knights. Isabelle – my lovely former wife - was precontracted to another man before she married King John. That is grounds to annul their marriage, making young Henry and his brother illegitimate. It leaves the throne mine for the taking." FitzWalter continued looking at Duana, seeming quietly resolved. "Once we marry, this son you carry: one day he will rule England, Duana."

She went to him, kneeling and taking his hand. "Listen to yourself. This is not my Fitz. You love young King Henry. Regardless of what his father or grandfather did, you love Henry like your own son. Even if you have him deemed a bastard, other Plantagenets would claim the throne. You would start a civil war, rip England in two – which is never what your father wanted. And Fitz, I am not with child."

He looked at her. A kind light warmed his dark eyes. Still, he spoke as if she remained far away. "It is too soon for you to show." He squeezed her hand. "I know you are worried. I am worried as well, but a physician is coming from France to attend you. We will hope for the best."

"Fitz, I-"

"I saw you, Duana," he said. "With William. You do not need to lie. It will not save William. He will die as painlessly and as soon as I can manage. The Council convenes after Christmas, and we will have this done. You and I will marry. No, I will not touch you," he said, as if that was her greatest concern. "I will not risk it while you are with child, and many men know I passed the night in your bed long before this. Instead, I will buy masses and indulgences, and pray for God's mercy for you and this child."

Duana remained kneeling on the rug in front of the sofa. Her mouth refused to move to speak.

"I arranged a Mass for Father tomorrow, at Temple Church," Fitz said. "I thought you would like that. The Bishop will hear your confession beforehand. Be truthful, Duana. I will be with you, and whatever sins William involved you in, I will allow no harm to come to you."

He stood, and helped Duana to her feet like a parent might guide a sleepy child. 

"I do wish, just once-" He shook his head. Fitz raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it with soft, warm lips. "Rest, lovely girl. You should have been abed hours ago. I must check on Henry and Eimile, and on the business of England. I will see you and Eimile tomorrow to go to Mass."

He left Duana standing on the rug. The blanket she had wrapped around her remained on the sofa, and the feel of Fitz's kiss lingered on her hand. Outside, the December snowstorm continued to howl.

*~*~*~*

Llewelyn had bribed a royal guard, who passed Gwilym's message to Mawr, and on to Llewelyn during the night. Llewelyn, in turn, gave his instructions to Mawr Hyll, who whispered the plan to Duana's maid, Ailish, long before the rest of London woke. To Llewelyn, Gwilym's plan seemed flawed but Llewelyn had to do his part and trust, as FitzWalter called him, 'that brilliant Welsh bastard' playing general from his locked room in The Tower. Still, Llewelyn's nature chaffed at a plan beginning with the word 'wait.'

Old men said they could not recall a colder winter in London. The deepest layer of icy muck in the streets dated to October, with frozen manure and other refuse preserved atop. The temperature had not risen above freezing in months and, despite his squire's cloak atop his own and a pair of fur-lined gloves, cold seeped into Llewelyn's bones. Llewelyn occupied himself with the peddlers' stalls and examined a pen of piglets for sale. He negotiated on broken French with a prostitute a long while, never agreeing upon a service or a price. The frustrated prostitute moved on but Llewelyn remained in the doorway of the Templar's stables. A cart inside held the horses' soiled bedding. Llewelyn found up a pitchfork and pretended to empty the cart. He tossed a fork of manure into the alley as he kept his head down and watched the door of Temple Church's nave. The nave was new in Llewelyn's grandfather's day, and the elaborate stone porch added soon after. Once the Knights Templar built the larger chancel, the nave became a crypt, and the nave's door, unused. 

Down the alleyway, Llewelyn saw the local Bishop arrive. Marshal FitzWalter exit a closed carriage with Lady Duana and Eimile. Llewelyn left his job as stable boy and prowled the block. FitzWalter had knights at the front doors of Temple Church as well as in the square and at each corner of the church. Llewelyn did not see Gwilym's men; he presumed them inside, guarding Duana.

Llewelyn had sought an audience with FitzWalter this morning. He had demanded Duana and Eimile – his hearth wife and daughter - be released to return to Wales. FitzWalter refused, of course, and Llewelyn, as Gwil's message directed, stormed out of the castle like a hotheaded barbarian warlord should, taking his knights with him. 

Carts creaked and crunched down the frozen alleyway. Boys ventured onto the frozen Thames. Llewelyn returned to the stable doorway and picked up the pitchfork. He had extra cloaks and blankets in his saddlebag, and a second horse saddled and tied beside his own at an inn the next street over. They could be through Blackfriar's Gate, across the bridge, and out of London in minutes. His knights had gone ahead to have a ship waiting. 

At a butcher's stall across from the nave, Llewelyn spotted the man Gwilym's message described: an old man in a dark cloak, with the face of evil. Through the snow, far down the narrow alley, Llewelyn caught sight of the tall Norman doctor Gwilym mentioned, as well, disguised in a white Knights Templar tunic and cloak. How Gwil knew the men would be there, Llewelyn could not fathom.

On the nave's porch, the old door opened silently. Llewelyn had oiled the hinges earlier, and Gwilym promised Duana could pick a lock. As usual, Gwil proved correct. Duana stepped onto the porch carrying Eimile and trying to keep a fur cloak over both of them against the cold. 

Before Llewelyn could move, the old man approached Duana. She stopped. Llewelyn saw her looked around – probably searching for Llewelyn – but focus warily on the old man. Llewelyn heard the man speaking soothingly to Duana, though Llewelyn could not make out the words.

Men's shouts echoed inside the church. Gwilym's men were to raise the alarm, but not so quickly. Llewelyn saw Duana glance around again. The Norman doctor moved toward her, as well.

At the old man's urging, Duana darted across the alley and into the shadows between two buildings. 

Lady Duana's guards, with FitzWalter's men on their heels, barreled out the nave of Temple Church. They yelled for her and, since Gwilym's knights were the size of plow oxen, cleared a broad path. Mawr and Mawr Hyll pointed at the Norman doctor and yelled in Welsh. The doctor, still clad as a Templar, turned and ran, with the Welsh knights and several royal guards in pursuit.

Duana remained in the shadows. The old man stood outside the nave, watching impassively. Llewelyn saw Duana scanning the bundled, hooded figures. She bounced Eimile, trying to keep the girl quiet. She looked behind her as if considering striking out on her own. Llewelyn hid not fifteen feet from her, but peasants and merchants and FitzWalter and an ever-growing crowd of Templar monks and knights lay between them. Llewelyn watched as FitzWalter spotted the old man. 

"Did you see Lady Duana?" FitzWalter demanded. "Where has she gone?"

"With a man who held her daughter and hurried Lady Duana from the church. I do not think she went with him of her own accord."

FitzWalter swore and told his men, "The Welshmen have taken her. I knew it. Search for Prince Llewelyn or one of his knights."

"No," the old man promised the Kingmaker knowingly. "The man she pleaded with, she called 'Donaes.' That name, she warned you of previously."

FitzWalter's jaw broadened. Others confirmed seeing the doctor. FitzWalter ordered his knights to fan out, to search everywhere.

Llewelyn saw a tall, hooded Templar knight approach Duana's hiding place. The knight passed close to Duana, took Eimile, secreted the child beneath his red and white cloak, and walked on. Duana looked stunned. Seconds later, the Templar knight passed Llewelyn. The Prince expected the doctor's face but instead recognized Gwil's broad mouth and distinctive jaw beneath the white hood.

Duana looked in Llewelyn's direction, wide-eyed. He gestured for her to wait, he would come to her. He would let Gwilym – however Gwilym escaped The Tower, crossed the Thames, and stole a Templar cloak - escape with Eimile, and Llewelyn would take Duana. Gwil mentioning this part of his plan would have been a welcome addition, though.

Twenty paces past Llewelyn, Gwilym set Eimile down on the trampled snow and walked on. Eimile, in her little cloak and mittens, called for her father several times, then her mother. She began to cry.

Gwilym's white hood continued down the alley until his head disappeared into the crowd of monks and knights.

Llewelyn gestured again for Duana to remain hidden. Instead, she started toward her daughter with that mule-headedly determined expression reinforcing Llewelyn's decision to marry her to Gwil, not himself. Llewelyn saw the old man emerge from the darkness behind Duana. How the man got there, Llewelyn did not know; Llewelyn had not seen him cross the alleyway. Before Duana could call out, the old man cupped a hand over her mouth, and her body went limp.

One of FitzWalter's knights picked up Eimile. The knight called for the Kingmaker as Eimile sobbed for her mother and father. The old man dragged Duana backward, deeper into the frozen shadows.

Gwilym had instructed Llewelyn to wait for Duana and, as Gwilym's knights created a diversion, spirit Duana safely from London. Gwil said nothing of the plan for Eimile. Down the alley, FitzWalter must have returned, because Llewelyn heard the frightened girl calling for "Fiss."

Llewelyn could no longer see the dark figure dragging Duana away.

Cursing, Llewelyn slipped down the alley and between the buildings where Duana had hidden. No light reached the narrow, icy path, which wound on forever and directly away from the stable holding his horses. After a minute's pursuit, Llewelyn spotted the old man carrying Duana. As Llewelyn unsheathed his sword with fingers numb from cold, a Templar knight stepped out of a building and clumsily plunged a dagger into the old man's shoulder. Duana's body fell to the frozen muck. The knight struck again, slashing the old man's throat, and this time delivering a fatal, if messy and inefficient, wound.

Llewelyn kept his sword at the ready as he ran to Duana. The knight bent down to examine her. Llewelyn raised his sword, ready for the Norman physician. Instead, the Templar pushed back his hood and had Gwilym's face. Llewelyn saw no doorway, no path, and no place where Gwil could have emerged. The backside of buildings flanked the narrow pathway, wedged shoulder to shoulder, as inseparable as a line of soldiers.

Gwilym held his own bloody dagger as if the weapon felt unfamiliar in his hand. He dropped the dagger on the dirty snow near the old man's dying body. Gwilym stepped back as a pool of blood crept toward him. 

The blood reached Duana's hand and her face and boot, but Llewelyn continued staring at Gwilym. Gwilym had cut his hair shorter, and a row of circular scars decorated each of his cheeks. Burns, Llewelyn imagined, courtesy of FitzWalter's torturer.

"Is she alive?" Llewelyn asked, but Gwilym did not answer. Gwilym looked at Llewelyn steadily, as he might take a stranger's measure.

Llewelyn sheathed his sword and squatted down. The old man's blood seeped onto Duana's velvet sleeve but white vapor escaped her mouth. Behind him, Llewelyn heard armor clink and heavy footsteps approach.

Gwilym did not speak or move, so Llewelyn gathered Duana up. Her head lolled. Blood dripped from her hand and one of her fancy boots. "Come," he ordered Gwilym, who still stared at him. "Gwil, I have horses. We must go!" Llewelyn insisted.

The footsteps grew louder. 

Gwilym gave him the oddest little grin as if recalling some pleasant memory. He said in oddly flat English, "Run."

Llewelyn held Duana's body and stared at Gwilym. Gwilym pulled off the Templar cloak and dropped it beside the old man's body. Gwilym wore dark, close-cut breeches and a short, dark shirt. Whatever the soft-looking fabric of Gwilym's shirt, Llewelyn wanted one. 

At the base of Gwil's throat, Llewel saw another scar: a straight, fading red line disappearing beneath the shirt. Llewelyn's scalp began to prickle. To be fading, a scar must first have been a wound. The oddly even marks on his face could be burns, but on his chest- Gwilym had not borne such a wound two months ago. 

Gwilym's chest moved as he breathed but his breath did not form white clouds. Nor did the dark hair on his arms bristle in the frigid air.

"Llewelyn the Great," Gwilym – or this magical creature impersonating Gwil - said in the same bizarre accent, "Run." Gwilym stepped back and merged with the shadows.

Llewelyn turned and, carrying Duana's body, ran. At an intersection, Llewelyn glanced back as he adjusted his grip on Duana. The old man's body still lay on the empty, dark path, with Gwilym's dagger and Templar cloak beside it.

"Run," Gwil's disembodied voice ordered from right beside the Prince. Llewelyn hoisted Gwil's pretty, rather bloody wife over his shoulder, crossed himself, and hurried on through the shadows. 

*~*~*~*

Gwilym held the book open for hours but did not read one word of Saint Matthew's gospel. Three days, Leuan had promised. 

Gwilym opened one shutter and watched the distant commotion this morning, as Londoners discovered a body beneath the frozen Thames. He watched men cut through the ice and drag a nude female corpse onto the riverbank.  
Gwilym latched the shutters, replaced the screen, and opened his borrowed book of gospels. He did not look at the window or at the door. As the hours crept by, he did not breathe, either. 

By noon he heard the guards talking in low voices.

Footsteps mounted the stone steps. Gwilym inhaled like a man about to submerge. FitzWalter's voice spoke. Gwilym's door unbarred.

"I am flattered, but – again - I do not fancy you," Gwilym called in French with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "Put away your pretty little prick. I cavort only with children and the Devil himself."

Gwilym hoped history did not record those as his last words.

The door opened. FitzWalter regarded him silently. The Kingmaker's face seemed puffy and, despite the cold, flushed. He had no expression, as if the feeling and color seeped from the known world this morning. FitzWalter said, "Come."

"I am reading," Gwilym said. "Allow me to finish the page, at least."

FitzWalter moved quickly for such a big man but struck Gwilym with the force Gwilym anticipated. The blow knocked Gwilym from his chair and sent the precious book of gospels sliding across the floor, to the hearth. The edges of the pages began to blacken and curl.

The Kingmaker drew a familiar dagger and put it to Gwilym's throat. "Come," he repeated in the same dangerous tone.

As soon a Marshal FitzWalter allowed him, Gwilym got to his feet and, holding his throbbing jaw, he followed FitzWalter from the room.

"That is my favorite dagger," Gwilym informed the back of FitzWalter's head. "I gave it to my wife. Have you taken it from my wife? What of my sword? Have you taken it, as well? The sword is Mab's."

Fitzwalter stopped as they reached the bottom of the twisting stairs. He turned to Gwilym. "What of King John?" he asked evenly. 

On a long alter at the front of the chapel, Gwilym saw a body wrapped head to toe in white cloth. It looked the right height, the right build. Have faith, he reminded himself.

"I never cared for King John – though we shared a taste for pubescent girls," Gwilym quipped. "I talked John to death. I poisoned him. I bid the Devil take his soul and crown me rightful King of England. You have my confession, FitzWalter. I am a dead man so why does it matter?"

"Yet." Again, Gwilym's own dagger was at his throat. "You are not a dead man yet," FitzWalter said. "Tell me what you have done God has taken such vengeance."

Gwilym swallowed and stepped back. He looked again at the alter. "King John was dying. He was fevered, confused. He saw my Templar robe and thought me a priest. He wanted to make a final confession, so I heard it. I even reminded him of sins he had forgotten. He wanted absolution and Last Rites, which I cannot give." He pointed to the wrapped body. "FitzWalter, who is that woman?" 

"You killed him?"

"He was coughing up and passing blood. I did not need to kill him."

"How did he die?"

"Alone in his own filth and begging for mercy, with the Devil waiting to take his unsanctified soul."

FitzWalter lowered the dagger. "Duana told me-"

"Duana told you what I told her. I said I made sure King John burned in Hell. What I did was treason and heresy, and I regret neither."

After a long silence, FitzWalter looked away. "She is dead."

"Who is dead?" The nearby knights did not meet Gwilym's eyes. His throat constricted and his heart joined his jaw in aching.

"I have heeded a false prophet. I, too, plotted treason. I coveted another man's wife." FitzWalter spoke as if he also mistook Gwilym for a priest. "Touched another man's wife. Coveted her sons. I have sinned, and I have failed in my promise to protect her."

Gwilym looked a third time at the front of the chapel. He took an uneasy step toward the shrouded body. Neither FitzWalter nor the knights at the chapel's door moved to stop him.

"We found Eimile. The girl is safe," FitzWalter said in an oddly empty voice. "We found the body of an old man who had bewitched me, and this dagger. But we did not find Duana in time. We searched the city and every inch for miles around it. Boys found her body this morning in The Thames. It had been there for days, right beneath my nose."

Gwilym took another step forward. 

"She bested three men," FitzWalter continued hollowly. To Gwilym, the Kingmaker's voice still sounded too loud in the quiet chapel. "But not a fourth. Not the physician she warned me of. He did this. I know it, and I will find him." 

"You are mistaken." Gwilym pulled aside the shroud and began unwrapping a strip of cloth from the body's hand. "This is not Duana."

"I am not mistaken. I saw the body before the nuns wrapped it."

"How are you so familiar with my wife's body?" The white cloth fell from equally white, dead flesh, revealing a small woman's hand lacking fingers. He unwrapped the fabric from the crown and saw cropped auburn hair. Gwilym did not have to pretend to tremble. 

Behind him, FitzWalter's voice said quietly, "She was with child, William. She claimed not, but I had a midwife examine the body. I-" There was a choked pause. "I will see she is buried in a tomb fit for a queen."

"You lie." Gwilym turned, stepped toward FitzWalter, and saw surprise in the Kingmaker's eyes as the dagger leapt from the sheath on FitzWalter's waist to Gwilym's hand. "This is a trick. You are a Norman liar, and you lie!"

Two royal knights approached with swords drawn. Gwilym held his dagger high, keeping all three men at bay.

"Do it." Gwilym's voice echoed off the stone ceiling mockingly. He heard the knights upstairs thunder down the steps. "If Duana is dead, I will die with her. I confess. I am a traitor and a heretic. Give the order, FitzWalter. Claim I challenged you, threatened you, tried to escape. A life for a life. Come for me, Noble Fitz." 

Five men, each with a sword, surrounded Gwilym and his dagger. One knight stepped forward, over-eager. Gwilym feigned left. With the dagger's tip, he nicked the knight's earlobe, and with the dagger's hilt, knocked the sword from the man's hand.

"Never lower your guard," Gwilym ordered as the knight held his bleeding ear. Gwilym turned, watching the other men. "Valhalla calls. Odin comes for me but I will not die at the hand of a fool who does not know to stay behind his sword.

Another knight struck. Gwilym dodged and deflected the over-cut habitually, but felt his hand go numb. He regretted not allowing the blow to land; those had been good last words for the historians. 

"You should get better knights, FitzWalter." Gwilym still turned in a stationary circle as the guards jockeyed for position. Numbness spread through his right hand. "Stop pissing about with councils and trials. Kill me yourself. I am guilty of crimes against The Crown and the Church. I have been among the Druids. I have taken my wife and son among them." Gwilym stepped closer. "One clean cut, Noble Fitz. I will see my wife again. I will hold her. I will love her. You, who believe a man can own a wild swan, never will."

Another fine last line, Gwilym congratulated himself. 

FitzWalter shifted his stance and raised his sword expertly. 

"Fitz, do not," a little voice ordered from behind Gwilym.

FitzWalter did not lower his guard, but he stepped back, beyond Gwilym's reach. He gestured for his knights to step back, as well. "Henry, I told you to wait in your apartment."

"Is Countess Duana truly dead, Fitz?"

"Henry, I told you to wait and we would-" FitzWalter's chest rose. "I said I would accompany you to the chapel, my lord."

"Are you certain?"

"I am." The Kingmaker cleared his throat. "As I am certain you should not be here."

"Fitz, someone has hurt her hand. She must have a doctor." 

FitzWalter opened his mouth wordlessly.

Gwilym appraised FitzWalter and stepped back, lowering the dagger. He glanced over his shoulder. The young King sat in a dark corner of the chapel wedged between statues of saints, with his arms around his knees. The King wiped his nose on a fur-trimmed, velvet sleeve.

Gwilym turned his back on FitzWalter and went to the boy. Squatting down, he told King Henry, "You are correct. This is not Duana." Henry looked up and sniffed. "This is a body. Duana is with God."

"How can God allow this? Countess Duana is like, like the sun."

Gwilym cupped Henry's wet cheek with his numb palm. "Darkness seeks light as moths seek a flame. The alchemists say it is the nature of things: to pull to the opposite. Like England, beautiful things have little peace, but Duana has peace now. She is Camelot, like the bards' story; such beauty cannot truly die. She sleeps until she returns to us."

The King nodded miserably. 

Footsteps approached behind Gwilym. "Do you understand Lord William?" FitzWalter's voice asked.

Henry nodded again. "Maids must bring blankets for her. She is cold."

"I will tell them," FitzWalter promised hoarsely. "I will see she is buried with a warm blanket."

Gwilym wiped Henry's face, and moved back. "She has a tomb in the mountains of Wales. A fine tomb, beneath a church where it is warm and where the monks sing above her. She will rest beside my first Dafydd and my father and his father: all great men who will see her safe. Soon, my body will be there as well. And you, young Henry, will grow to be a fine king and worthy of your grandfather's name."

"You are a nice man," the boy-King said. "For a Welsh barbarian. I am sure my father was like you, except he was not a Welsh barbarian." 

"Even kings are allowed one flaw."

Henry's forehead wrinkled. "What will become of Eimile and the son the Countess speaks of? If Countess Duana is dead, and you kill Lord William, what becomes of them, Fitz?" the boy asked. "They will have no parents. They will be like me."

"Prince Llewelyn will watch over them, love them, as FitzWalter watches over you," Gwilym assured the boy. He gestured to FitzWalter's knights lurking near the alter. "Go back to your apartment, my lord. Marshal FitzWalter and I – we will not be long with our business here."

Henry looked to FitzWalter, who nodded. The boy let two of the knights steer him from the chapel and out into the frozen bailey. Once the doors closed, Gwilym stood and nodded to FitzWalter. Gwilym held the dagger out of habit but did not raise it.

"I did not know what to say to him," FitzWalter's voice admitted. 

"I did. I once had the same conversation with another little boy after he watched his mother burn to death."

"Your son? Your baseborn son?"

"My hearth wife's child, and King John's son." 

Gwilym noted FitzWalter blinked but paid no further attention to him. He went to the alter again. At some point the blow would come. Gwilym felt so hollow he expected FitzWalter's blade might pass through him, as though his flesh had turned to fog. He held what remained of the body's cold hand.

"She truly has a tomb in Wales. Have her body taken there," Gwilym said quietly. "The baby– If you can find the grave in Carmarthen Priory, let her son be with her, as well. Sawyl." The tomb should bear a name. "Sawyl ap Gwilym of Aber."

Gwilym closed his eyes and waited. He waited to see her, in his mind: the woman who waited on the opposite shore. 

She did not come for him.

"God will judge you," FitzWalter's voice said. "As He will judge me. As He will judge all of us."

Gwilym bowed his head, offering his neck, and continued to wait.

Behind Gwilym, heavy, defeated footsteps turned and left. Gwilym looked back. The remaining royal knights stood at ease, and the chapel's door remained open, letting in the winter chill.

*~*~*~*

Immodestly dressed women – particularly the pretty wives of other men - were slippery, tricky creatures who lacked a proper place for a good handhold. 

Moving quickly, Llewelyn caught Duana around the waist as she tried to dodge past him. He stopped her but lost his balance and tumbled them into a tangle of arms and legs in the snow. He shied away as his forearm grazed the underside of her breasts - an opportunity Duana seized to twist away, get to her feet, kick him, and run back into the forest.

"Stop her!" Prince Llewelyn yelled at his knights. The knights turned after Duana, appearing to obey, but turtles gave chase faster. Even on orders from their Prince, no Welshman would manhandle Lord Gwilym's wife without first seeing Lord Gwilym's corpse.

Cursing, Llewelyn got to his feet and chased Duana himself. She reached a clearing in the trees. He grabbed the back of the cloak she wore, caught her wrist, and jerked her back to him.

"I said stop!" he yelled. "Enough, woman!"

"I cannot leave him!" she yelled back. "I cannot leave my daughter."

"Your daughter is safe," Llewelyn promised yet again as Duana tried to writhe away. "I will send for her as soon as I can." 

She continued to struggle so hard he must be leaving new bruises. Duana never woke as Llewelyn rode from London and roused briefly during the first night. For a time, she seemed dazed by whatever herb or hex the old man had used. Once her mind cleared though, and Duana realized they traveled away from both London and Wales... Llewelyn could tie her to a horse or jail her in a shed for the night, but Duana had a single purpose. Despite being bruised and bloody and nearly-frozen, she would escape Llewelyn and return to London for Eimile and Gwil. Or die in her attempt. Llewelyn was charged with seeing she did not – escape or die.

Llewelyn's and Gwilym's knights caught up, and stood watching uselessly.

"You left William." Duana addressed Llewelyn as well as the knights. She stood in the snow wearing a chemise and Llewelyn's velvet-trimmed cloak, both filthy and torn. Her words hung between them in white clouds of accusation. "How could you? After all he has done for you, how can you abandon him? How can you call yourself his friend?"

The two largest knights, Gwilym's men, shifted uncomfortably and studied their snowy boots. They had been the last men to catch up with Llewelyn, leaving London days ago and bringing news explaining why Marshal FitzWalter's knights had not pursued Llewelyn. Lacking a woman trying to thwart their every attempt to help her, Mawr and Mawr Hyll had reached the prearranged meeting place this evening. Covering the same distance with Duana had taken Llewelyn twice as long.

"Stop," Llewelyn barked in frustration. "Enough! William may tolerate this but I will not. You will stop this instant!" 

To Llewelyn's surprise, Duana stopped struggling. 

"My lady, your daughter is safe," Mawr said. "With my own eyes, I saw Count FitzWalter holding Eimile outside Temple Church. I will fetch the child myself as soon as Prince Llewelyn orders it."

Llewelyn loosened his hold on her wrist. "Come." He guided her back toward the shore. "There is venison. Wine. The men have made a fire and a place for you to rest."

She let him lead her a few steps but stopped. Duana looked over her shoulder at the frozen, darkening woods between them and London.

"Do not," he cautioned. "If you keep fighting me, you will get hurt." 

"You will hurt me?" she asked in a small voice.

Llewelyn looked at his fingers encircling her bruised wrist. He let go and instead put his hand on her back. "No," he promised tiredly. "No, I would not hurt you. You must trust me."

Duana stepped forward, letting the Prince guide her. The knights turned toward their makeshift camp as well, trudging through the snow and toward some protection from the elements. Like them, Llewelyn wanted to sleep. To be warm and comfortable in this icy, empty world.

He felt Duana's cold hand take his. "I do trust you," she said softly. "Do you care for me so much?"

"I do, and I have promised Gwil. I will see you are safe." 

Duana stopped walking, so he stopped as well. The knights plodded on toward the horses and tents.

"I am so tired, Llewel," she murmured. "Afraid." He looked down on her. Sleet melted on her cheeks and forehead. Her hair looked wild, and those big blue eyes were vast and bottomless. 

"Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you." He ignored the animal in the back of his brain suggesting he put his arms around her. Comfort her, the voice urged, trying to sound like his conscience. "I promised Gwil- I have promised many things."

"What have you promised?" she asked softly. "William said you look at me and see someone you lost. Someone you loved. Do you truly care for me?" Her voice trembled and her body shivered inches from his. "You are my hearth husband. My son's father. You come to my rooms, linger late with me. Do you want more than a ruse, Llewel?"

"Do not bother." Llewelyn stepped back. "Want is a complex and expensive thing for a prince." 

She still held his hand, and now her finger trailed down his chest. Beneath Llewelyn's chest plate and tunic, his traitorous heart beat faster. "I can give you so many things." 

He let go of her hand and caught her other wrist again, holding the trespassing hand in midair. "Want or not, I have no desire to wake with a knife in my throat and you halfway back to London." 

"Llewel..." Her lips remained lips parted after she finished caressing the last syllable. She licked them, her tongue darting through the pink opening. "Are you certain? Not tonight? Not any night?"

For a heartbeat he imagined it: to slip under the blankets and know a woman truly wanted him. Not because he was her lawful husband or the Prince of Wales or a customer, but because she chose him. To love each other carelessly and have children whenever God willed it. To not need guards outside her door in his absence. To not hear the whispered counting of weeks each time she announced she was with child. Joanna tried to be a dutiful wife. He could forgive her, but never forget. Nor would Joanna ever give him a son. He did love her, but King John commanded Joanna to love Llewelyn. Tangwystl loved Llewelyn long before he was the Prince of Wales. Tang was gone, though. In the darkest part of his brain, for an instant in the cold, dead forest, he thought Duana might fill that void.

"Stop it!" Llewelyn shook her wrist in frustration. "Do not do this! Tang is dead. Nothing I do will bring her back! Gwil is dead! Nothing you do will bring him back!" 

"He is not!" Duana tried to twist away again, and to pry his fingers from her wrist. "He is not."

"He is. I saw his ghost, as did you."

"He is not," she insisted desperately. "That was not my William!"

"Gwil was dead before we left London. FitzWalter must have ordered it the moment he had you away from Court. Duana-" He caught her other hand as she tried to hit him. Llewelyn flipped her around, holding her back against his chest. "I am sorry," he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. She kicked backward, punishing his shins until he lifted her off the ground and she could not get leverage to do much harm. 

"He is not dead! Let me, let me go. Do not- You le-let me-" She fought like a trapped animal. She struggled to breathe, though he tried not the hold her tightly. Gwilym had warned him not to hold Duana against her will, but Llewelyn saw no other option.

After a few frantic moments, he felt her body go limp. Llewelyn lowered Duana to the snow and held his palm near her mouth until he was certain she breathed. Shivering, he pressed his finger to her neck to check for the heartbeat. He felt it, warm and strong under the pale, delicate skin. 

Llewelyn gathered Duana up and carried her, past the fire, into his tent. He laid her on his pallet so she would be comfortable. The wind whipped the tent walls so they billowed like a ship's sail. In the darkness, he checked Duana's pulse again and covered her with a heavy blanket. Llewelyn lit a candle, shielding the flame with his palm. Even filthy and bruised, Lady Duana was lovely - far too pretty to be wasted on a Norman nobleman or a nunnery.

Tang was dead. Gwil was dead. Gwilym's knights brought word from London even Duana was dead. FitzWalter thought her dead, at least. Gwilym had devised a brilliant plan, except for the part requiring Gwil's soul part company from his body.

Llewelyn heard the men outside cooking, tending the horses, and discussing the crossing in the morning. Not knowing what else to do, Llewelyn sat down to wait and keep watch over Duana as she slept. 

*~*~*~*

The night was so cold and the wind so bitter the knights had erected a series of canvas sheets as a windbreak over and around the horses' pen. Beneath another canvas shelter and beside a dying campfire, the knight Llewelyn assigned to guard the horses slept soundly. Gwilym sent Eimile's nursemaid to huddle beneath the shelter, offering her and Eimile some protection from the elements. The sleeping guard did not stir.

As the saddle slid off his back, Goliath's chest rumbled and the dark skin of his haunches rippled in pleasure. Once Gwilym had Goliath rubbed down, he gave his horse a parting pat and turned Goliath and the nursemaid's horse loose to join the others.

Eimile slept soundly in her little fur world, sheltered by rabbit skins against the cold. Gwilym gave Eimile's nursemaid his bedroll and found the young woman a place to sleep in one of the knights' tents. Still, no one in Llewelyn's camp woke. 

Carrying Eimile, Gwilym pushed aside the flap of Llewelyn's tent enough to see in. Warmth and the scent of lovemaking wafted out. He saw a small brazier and Llewelyn sitting beside it, fully dressed. Gwilym spotted Duana asleep on Llewelyn's bed, and the frigid air became easier to breathe.

Llewelyn watched Duana for a while. He stirred the orange coals with a stick. Llewelyn's squire's pallet remained empty, and Llewelyn had a frayed blanket around his own shoulders. A spit held the remains of a venison haunch. Farther from the brazier, Gwilym took the sizable lumps beneath blankets to be his own two knights, snoring.

As Gwilym watched, Llewelyn leaned close to Duana. Llewelyn adjusted her blanket, sat back, and resumed poking the coals. 

"She is beautiful," Gwilym agreed softly. "I will haunt you if you touch her now, though."

Llewelyn scrambled backward. The wool blanket fell from his shoulders. Gwilym pushed the tent flap aside and entered.

"What are you?" Llewelyn found someone's eating knife. "Are you flesh?"

"At my last inspection, I was," Gwilym answered casually. "Though not much flesh at the moment, given my cold hand and the cold wind."

As Llewelyn continued to gape and brandish the knife, Gwilym laid Emile beside Duana. The little girl opened her eyes before she cuddled against her mother's chest and slipped back into dreams. Gwilym pulled Duana's blanket to cover them both. He ran his fingers down Duana's cheek. 

"Hail Mary, fu-full of, full of grace," Llewelyn recited. "Bless, blessed, blessed-"

"Blessed art thou among women," Gwilym supplied. The Prince nodded in agreement. "You should get new guards, Llewel. Yours are sound asleep."

"Among women," Llewelyn echoed fervently, and crossed himself. 

Gwilym watched Duana, who remained lost in the peaceful oblivion of unconsciousness. In his mind, he picked her up and swung her around for the world to see, proclaiming she was his. In his mind, he stripped off her dress, pushed her back on some soft bed, and blended his body with hers. In his mind, he swung down from his horse, his armor glistening, grinned, and opened his arms as she ran to him. 

Duana was alive and safe and warm. Seeing her, Gwilym felt the most blessed man alive. Assuming nonchalance like a shirt he pulled on, Gwilym sat down on the squire's pallet. He stretched his boots toward the fire and sighed. Llewelyn continued holding the eating knife in mid-air, although he pointed rather than wielded it.

"Is she well?"

"She is asleep," Llewelyn answered warily. The Prince started to lower the knife but changed his mind, "Lady Duana is asleep."

"I see she is asleep. Is she well?"

"Lady Duana is well for a woman whose husband is newly dead." Llewelyn blinked several times. The Prince leaned closer as if examining Gwilym's face. "I am dreaming. I was awake and keeping watch, but I have fallen asleep. This is a dream. I am dreaming."

Gwilym pulled a chunk of venison off the spit. He tossed the meat into the air and caught it in his mouth. "Piss," he advised as he chewed. "You will wake."

"You are not a ghost." Llewelyn pointed at him. "Ghosts do not eat."

"Do not be so certain. My castle ghost reads my books." Gwilym licked his fingers and resumed chewing. "How is my wife? She looks pale. Pale and badly in need of a bath and a hairbrush."

"I will see she gets both; I swear it by the Virgin. I am not trying to mistreat her – only corral her for her own good." 

"Best of luck to you in that enterprise." 

Llewelyn leaned close as if inspecting Gwilym again. Next, he touched Eimile's head, testing if she was real. "Is this Old Magic?" Llewelyn guessed next. "You bringing Duana's daughter? I saw you dead, Gwil."

"I am bone-tired and, in the last months, accustomed to myself, but I do not think I am dead. Merely cold." Gwilym pushed up his tunic and moved as if to untie his breeches. "Come decide for yourself, my prince. Tell me, do you know the Latin word 'fellatus?' Choose carefully. Say 'no,' and I judge you naïve, but 'yes' and I judge you perverse." 

Prince Llewelyn stared at Gwilym. "By Christ, I think it is you, Gwil. Are you returned from the dead yet again? Are you too rotten to be an angel yet too damn pretty to be allowed into Hell?"

Gwilym dropped his tunic back over his lap, blew a mocking kiss at Llewelyn, and shrugged. "Of course, it is me. Who else would trouble you at this time of night?" He nodded to Duana, who slept on, not moving except to breathe. "Why is she here?" 

"I feared, if I left her in the abbey, she would slip away during the night. My tent is the warmest, and your knights-" Llewelyn gestured to Mawr and Mawr Hyll. "They were quiet and your wife was sound asleep. It was my order they remain in my tent, not their request."

Gwilym meant 'why had she not sailed for France,' but glanced back at his two sleeping knights. In the valley between Ugly and Big Ugly, he saw Duana's Irish maid, bare-shouldered and asleep with her hair unbraided.

"Ailish arrived with them this evening. I suspect FitzWalter wanted her returned to southern Wales but it seems she has taken your knights as her hearth husbands. Husbands," Llewelyn repeated. "Not in turn, but at once - or at least, as much at once as nature allows." Llewelyn added by way of excuse, "They are brothers."

"I am sorry to have missed witnessing that." He glanced at the happily sleeping trio again. Mawr and Mawr Hyll were good men, and the maid likely Gwilym's age and a widow. "I wonder what they will tell their mother once they reach Aber, but I suppose it easier than fighting over her. Did they find the doctor?"

"They did, and brought me his hand as proof. Mawr said the head required too much space in his saddlebag."

Gwilym nodded. Returning his attention to Duana, he said, "She should have sailed by now. Is the ship still off-shore?"

"It is, and the boat at the dock, but your wife makes lions look docile. I have been kicked, bitten, cursed and deceived. This morning, I unbarred the door of her room at an inn – a room with no windows and no loose boards – and she had burned her dress. She refused to put on another. I have never before wrestled a woman into her chemise, and I have no idea how to dress one. So Duana wears my cloak and I shiver. I sent my squire to buy another cloak for me, but has he returned?" Llewelyn gestured in tired frustration. "He has not. You want me to put this treacherous creature on a boat? The moment I let go of her, Gwil, she would claw my eyes out, jump overboard, and try to swim back to London."

"She cannot swim." Gwilym picked up a lock of Duana's hair. "She would try, though. Did you tell her I was dead and Eimile safe?"

"I did. It made no difference. Speaking of such matters: what of you and King John? What of FitzWalter and treason and the trial?"

"FitzWalter developed a sudden case of nobility – severe, even for him. He will probably recover, especially if he discovers Duana remains alive. I am to go back to Wales and return to win the King's wars in the spring. In my spare time, I suppose I get to win your wars, as well." 

"Did you do it, Gwil?" The Prince stoked the fire again and avoided eye contact.

Gwilym looked at him steadily. "Do you truly want me to answer?"

The wind picked up, whipping the tent walls. Llewelyn sat back, leaving the question unanswered and the coals to burn untended.

Gwilym caressed Duana's face again, leaving his palm on her cheek. "Once she reaches Fontevraud Abbey, she will be safe. FitzWalter will not search as long as he believes she is dead. The nuns there can read. They play music and write verse and-"

"She will not stay, Gwil. I do not think she would stay if you were truly dead, and she will certainly not remain once she knows you still live."

"She will." Gwilym stood. "Lie down," He gestured to the wide pallet. "It is your bed. Untie your breeches and lie down."

Llewelyn untied the drawstring of his breeches and lowered himself down, not touching Duana and looking like he thought Gwilym insane. 

Gwilym unfastened the cloak so it fell from Duana's shoulders, leaving her in a dirty chemise. He put Llewelyn's hand on Duana's hip. "Stay there and act like the arrogant, short-sighted bastard you can be. And do not cross your arms." Duana nestled back against Llewelyn, who continued to stare bewilderedly at Gwilym.

Gwilym picked up Eimile, wrapped her loosely in her fur cocoon, and returned to stand at the front of the tent.

*~*~*~*

First, Gwilym untied the tent flap so snow blew in, but Duana slept on. Llewelyn's armor was stacked near the tent's entrance. Gwilym kicked the stack over, and the steel clattered noisily. 

Duana startled under Llewelyn's hand. She opened her eyes and pushed up on her elbow. "William?" she said blearily.

Gwilym squatted down and set Eimile, barely awake, on her feet. "Go to your mother." 

"Oh my God." Duana held her hands out for the stumbling child. "My baby girl," she murmured into Eimile's blonde curls, and kissed her head. "Oh, thank the Blessed Virgin. Mathair was so afraid."

Gwilym's knights opened their eyes. Gwilym saw the brothers glance at him, and at Duana with Llewelyn. The twin knights half-closed their eyes again. Beneath the blankets, Mawr Hyll covertly nudged Ailish awake.

"William?" Duana said as she held Eimile. Gwilym did not respond, so she said slowly, in formal French, "Thank you for helping my daughter. I thought you had abandoned her."

He stared past her. Duana turned to see Llewelyn on the pallet behind her. Duana's chemise had ridden up as she slept, baring her legs. Her wild hair tangled and bruises covered her forearms.

"I die for you, and you cannot wait a fortnight? You cannot wait until my body cools? Duana, Princess of Wales; it does have a nice ring to it."

She repeated, "William?" a third time in disbelief.

"What, dear wife?" he responded coldly. "I have come for you. I would say 'welcome me,' but my place seems taken." He nodded to the trio feigning sleep in the shadows. "Is this a Roman orgy?" To Llewelyn, Gwilym asked, "How did you find her? As good as Diana?"

Llewelyn looked away.

"I never thought so either," Gwilym supplied.

"I do not understand. Are you my William?" Duana picked up Eimile and scooted away from Llewelyn, who remained where Gwilym put him. "Llewelyn? I do not understand," she repeated.

"Well, Llewelyn?" Gwilym asked. "My wife says she does not understand why she wakes in your bed."

"She offered," Llewelyn said. "We thought you dead, and she offered." 

"I did not-" Duana’s protest stopped.

"Will you marry her, Llewel?"

"Perhaps. If she conceives. If you remain dead." The Prince shifted back to tighten and tie the lace of his breeches. "Even if she carries a son, marrying her risks FitzWalter's wrath upon Wales. I made no promises to her. She asked if I wanted her. I did." Llewelyn reached to pat Duana's ankle fondly. 

Duana pulled her foot back like a cat did if a human touched its paw.

The happy threesome at the back of the tent had opened their eyes. Mawr even rolled over to watch.

"Get up," Gwilym ordered Duana. "Get up and get dressed."

Duana glanced at Llewelyn again. Leaving Eimile, she got to her feet unsteadily and pushed her hair back from her face. She stepped forward. Gwilym held his hands in the air, telling her not to touch him. Ignoring his order, Duana put her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. As much as Gwilym wanted to lower his hands, he did not. "Do not touch me," he repeated in a tone threatening harm. "Fine. Go as you are."

Gwilym grabbed Duana's poor wrist and pulled her outside into the cold, dark morning. She wore ornate shoes and a dirty, ragged lace-trimmed chemise. The snow reached her ankles as Gwilym dragged her toward the boat dock.

Llewelyn got up, bundled Eimile up, grabbed the cloak, and followed. Sleepy, curious knights peeked from the other tents. "She is leaving," Gwilym announced, and the knights scurried to get ready.

"I am leaving?" Duana jogged to keep up. "Where am I going?

"Away from me."

She dug her heels into the snow. He dragged her several more feet across the frozen ground as she insisted, "William, I am sorry. Listen to me. I do not remember what happened with Llewel. He said you were dead."

"It is 'Llewel' now?" he snapped. "As it is 'Fitz'? Listen to me, Duana. Enough of this. Allowing the Kingmaker in your bed was one thing, but seducing my friend - how dare you! Our year has long passed." 

Gwilym grabbed Duana around her waist and tossed her over his shoulder. He carried her down the rickety dock to the boat and set her down roughly.

"William, what are you doing?" Duana pleaded.

"Ridding myself of a useless wife. A wanton, troublesome embarrassment. Dafydd is dead and Mab is gone because of you. You abandoned Eimile in London. You betray and abandoned me. You cannot even give me another son, though how would I ever know he was mine if you did? Your legs open more than London's Newgate yet nothing useful ever emerges."

"Jesus, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered from behind them. 

Two of Llewelyn's knights hurried past Gwilym and stepped down into the boat; hopefully the men were better sailors than guards. Eimile's nursemaid stood on the riverbank with her arms wrapped around her and her hair uncovered. Another of Llewelyn's knights brought her a blanket.

"Where are you sending me?" Duana shivered in the wet darkness.

"Fontevraud Abbey. That is what you wanted."

"I did not say I wanted to go there. I wanted Eimile to go."

Gwilym spun around, walked back to Llewelyn, and took Eimile from him. Turning back a second time, he took the cloak from Llewelyn as though it was an afterthought. Gwilym threw the soiled cloak at Duana.

"Fine. She may go." He stalked past Duana and handed Eimile down to one of Llewelyn's knights in the boat. The knight held the child at arm's length, as if Eimile might ignite at any moment. Eimile's nursemaid started to follow. Gwilym signaled her not to.

"I am sorry. How can you do this?" Duana asked. Tears dripped down her face. Llewelyn's velvet-trimmed cloak lay at her feet.

"Why would I want King John's bastard under my roof? You tricked me. You went to bed with me so I could not annul you, though you knew you carried the King's child. You said you were not sure, but you knew. I should have sent both of you back to King John. If had, I would still have my Dafydd. Dry up! Stop crying! Will you try to pass off FitzWalter's bastard son as Llewelyn's? Do you think the Prince of Wales so desperate or so stupid and love-struck?"

As Llewelyn opened his mouth to object, Duana pleaded, "That is not what happened." 

"Are you going with Eimile or is she going alone?"

"I will not!" Duana crossed her arms. She shivered violently but Gwilym could not help her without giving himself away. 

Eimile, likely wanting to sleep, discomforted by the knight's mid-air death grip, and frightened by the shouting, started to sob. Gwilym looked down at her, and at Duana. "Get in the boat, woman! Get in the Goddamn boat before I beat you senseless!" 

"I will not," she repeated with her teeth chattering. "What are you? You are not my William." She looked at Prince Llewelyn and asked in perfect Welsh, "Do you see him? Is this your friend Gwilym?"

Llewelyn nodded, though seeming unsure it was the correct response.

"You are correct," Gwilym informed her. "I am not and have never been your William. I am returning to Wales. To Muretta, to our son. My son, Duana. Not a grave and not a lie. Eimile can go to Fontevraud Abbey and you, dear wife, can go to Hell."

"You lie," Duana insisted. 

Gwilym looked up at Eimile's nursemaid. "Tell her," he commanded. "After my wife fell from her horse, outside my rooms, what did you see?"

The young woman opened her mouth. After a few tries, she managed, "I saw his lordship with Muretta. They stood close and she held his hand."

Gwilym returned his focus to Duana. "Did you truly believe I spent so much time visiting a tomb?" He pulled the dagger from his waist and began sawing the rope holding the boat to the dock. He could have untied it but cutting seemed dramatic. "If Llewel or FitzWalter want to go after you, they can, but I am done bleeding for you."

She wiped her eyes and watched his face. "Show me your scars." 

Gwilym stopped sawing the rope. "What? Why?" 

"If you are my William - or any I have ever known - you are bluffing. Show me your scars."

"Get in the Goddamn boat!" Gwilym towered over her. 

"I will not," she answered coolly, "but tell me why you want me to get in it." 

He bit the inside of his lip. With an angry huff, he shoved her backward, toward the end of the dock. "I do not want you! I have had you, Duana, and Llewel and FitzWalter are mistaken. You are not worth the trouble."

She still watched him. Gwilym shoved her back again, pushing Duana forcefully enough she landed on her bottom on the snow-covered boards. Icicles hung from the ends of the warped planks and ice coated the outside of the boat. Mawr and Mawr Hyll had joined the collection of gawking squires and knights on the riverbank; both knights had a hand on the hilt of their sword.

"I suggest you get in the boat before we reach the edge," Gwilym told Duana as she got to her feet. "This is England and I found you abed with another man. I must pay Fontevraud Abbey to take you, but that water is thirty feet deep and ice cold. No man would blame me, and I would be free of you within minutes."

She stood four feet from the end of the dock - closer than he wanted to risk pushing her again. Emily's sobbing became wailing and Duana's lips became blue. Gwilym sensed Llewelyn behind him, wanting to object. If Llewelyn intervened, Gwilym could yell at Llewelyn to take her, and Gwilym would walk away. 

Hitting Duana would guarantee Llewelyn stepped in, but Gwilym feared her falling so near the end of the boards. As Gwilym raised his hand, debating, Duana took a step backward. And a second step back, so she stood at the end of the dock. She still watched him.

"Duana-" Gwilym said sharply. She took a third step back and let herself start to fall from the dock. Llewelyn and the knights gasped. Gwilym reached out, grabbed her wrist, and jerked her back. "Damn it!" he yelled, truly furious. "Goddamn it, Duana. Do not do that!"

He felt her quaking, heard her sobbing. As he bit back an apology, Gwilym realized Duana did not cry. She laughed. At him. 

Admitting defeat, Gwilym put his arm around her. He still held his dagger in his other hand, but he made no move to continue cutting the rope.

Llewelyn called, "I was brilliant. She believed me. You are the unconvincing actor, Gwil."

Gwilym kissed the top of Duana's head and confessed. "Of course, I want you, and you are worth infinite trouble, but this is also true: you must get on that boat. You must disappear. Right now, Cariad."

"Why?" Duana asked his chest. "Am I in danger?"

"The Norman doctor has been killing and mutilating red-haired women. FitzWalter mistook one of the bodies for you. FitzWalter thinks you are dead, so sees no gain in executing me, for the moment. There is a ship offshore waiting to take you to France. To Fontevraud Abbey. Or to Ireland, if you want. I will pay for you to go to any of the convents there," he said. "If you want Eimile, you- You may take her."

Her head shook 'no.'

"Are you saying you do not want her, or you still will not go?"

"I am saying I do not care which William you are. Or care what Fitz thinks. I am going home to Wales, and I am taking you and my daughter with me."

He stepped back and looked down at her, thinking she did not understand. "What happens once FitzWalter discovers he has been tricked and you remain alive? Messengers ride between Wales and England all the time. The villagers and knights will recognize you. Sooner or later, word would reach the King. FitzWalter would summon us back to London and this story would repeat itself."

"Take a red-haired hearth-wife for comfort after your wife's death," the Prince of Wales suggested. "Insist on calling her 'Duana,' or in your grief, even insist she is Duana. You would not be the first man to do that, and everyone already thinks you are insane."

"You are not helping, Llewel," Gwilym called back. "As far as you being a convincing actor? You are correct: Duana believed you would rape her as she lay unconsciousness and your men watched. Consider that, Grandpa, and let me manage my wife."

"Stop calling me that." 

Gwilym ignored the Prince and told Duana, "I am to winter in Aber. The rest of the year I will be with the King's or Llewelyn's army. You cannot accompany me. I cannot write to you; you cannot write to me. You risk everything to see me barely at all. What if we have another child, Cariad? What of when I die? I cannot live forever, even for you. What would happen to you?"

"Nothing would happen to her," Llewelyn said. "If the Lord of Gwynedd dies without an heir, his liege lord designates one. I designate Dafydd unless your mysterious red-haired hearth-wife has another son. If she does, we make that son heir to Gwynedd and Pembrokeshire. Perfectly legitimate in Wales. Piss on Norman law."

"I like his plan," Duana said quickly. 

Gwilym looked back at Llewelyn unhappily, and at Duana. "Llewel could not successfully plan to hit ground if he fell off a cliff. Duana, I will come to you," he conceded. "If you will get on the boat, I will come to you. What is the difference between hiding in Aber and hiding in France or Ireland? In a few months, I will bring the children and we will visit you in secret. We will winter with you," he promised. "But you have to go, Cariad. You are not safe here, and there will be no second chance."

"You will come to me no matter where I am," Duana said with great certainty. "But I prefer you come to me in Aber."

Gwilym sheathed his dagger and looked up at the violet sky. The snow had stopped and dawn began to break. "I swear by Christ on the Cross! You and Llewelyn should never again accuse me of rashness or insanity. This is nonsense. Get in the boat."

She shook her head.

He put his hands on his hips. "I will make you to go, Duana," he told her, meaning it. He might have to kill Mawr and Mawr Hyll to do it, but Gwilym could force Duana into that boat.

"You will not," Llewelyn said commandingly. Gwilym glanced back. "Let this woman be."

"Risk her chance at freedom so you can order me to surrender her to FitzWalter in a few months? Your scheme has several tragic flaws, Llewel. FitzWalter is not a fool. We can trick him for a winter and perhaps for a year or two, but what happens once FitzWalter realizes he has been duped? You are the King's vassal and I am yours. Will you defy the King and start a war with England over my wife? Of course, you would not. Nor would I ask you to."

"Your Christian wife is dead, Gwil. We all grieve. Her son born of the Druid bonfires, I acknowledge as my heir. I have sworn it and I am the Prince of Wales. If the Crown would discover Lady Duana still lives, she must be returned to me. Lord Gwilym's new hearth wife? I do not know who she is, but she cannot be Lady Duana. If you or the King insists she is Duana, I will reclaim my hearth wife and Wales will rejoice. If she is not Lady Duana, leave her in peace."

Gwilym turned and stared at Llewelyn. He started to object but closed his mouth and tilted his head. 

"I am still to say she was my hearth wife, right, Gwil?" Llewelyn checked.

Gwilym nodded. "That is imaginative, tactful, and thorough. Comprised of sound yet incomprehensible logic making FitzWalter's head spin. Druid bonfires and 'piss on Norman law'? It smacks of treason and heresy. Your plan is daring, bloodless, subtle, and politically risky. Yet hopelessly romantic. This is unlike you, Llewel."

"I know," the Prince answered. He grinned before he remembered himself and his stony expression returned. "Say it was your idea, Gwil. I am the Prince of Wales."

Duana took Gwilym's hand. Her cheeks were mottled scarlet in the cold, and her eyes enormous as she looked up at him. He touched her tangled hair. "You know, I am a fool for girls with big, blue eyes."

"It is miserable winter morning, my lord. Where are you riding on such a day?"

"Wales," he answered after a few seconds. "I am going home. I have been away far too long. It is an epic story but my daughter and I are returning home. My wife's son lives, but my beautiful wife just died. She was murdered. She was with child, or so the midwife told the Kingmaker." Gwilym leaned down and told her in confidence, "He fancied her, as did other powerful men. In a world of dangerous men, my wife was a dangerous woman to love."

She pursed her lips sadly. "How tragic. You poor man."

"You resemble my wife. Though you are likely less stubborn and troublesome."

"I assure you I am equally stubborn and troublesome." She dropped his hand. Duana stepped around and past him, starting to walk away. "So, I suppose, good day and ride on, Sir Welshman."

"Oh, but I like a challenge." He pulled her back to him. "I am insane with grief. Everyone says so. If I were to, on impulse, take you home to Wales to console myself, how long would you be content to stay?"

"I do not know," Duana answered. "How long do you think we have? A winter? A year? A thousand years?"

"Be careful what you wish for," he warned.

The icy breeze off the water blew her hair wildly. She was so cold her lips were purplish-blue but she smiled a lovely, mysterious smile as if she knew a secret. 

Gwilym wrapped Llewelyn's cloak around Duana and held her against him for a minute, warming her. He signaled, and the nursemaid hurried to pick up Eimile from the boat, likely to the relief of the poor knight who thought he had to hold the screaming child all the way to France.

"Muretta merely held his lordship's hand," Eimile's nursemaid informed Duana, and gave Gwilym a defiant glance. "I judged him comforting her. He twists the truth."

Duana waved for the woman to stop explaining and get Eimile inside. 

"Gwil," Llewelyn said, reminding them he remained present. "I think you have lost a battle. And to a woman."

"Perhaps I did." Gwilym held Duana's hand as they walked back to the tents. "Or perhaps some battles, I plan to lose." 

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth X: Diwedd  
End: Hiraeth


End file.
